Leafy Bowers
by dreaming.in.sepia
Summary: Phyllis Baxter and Joseph Molesley take a walk one autumn afternoon, and he decides to tell her a story. Set post series 6 (fulfilling my Baxley dreams).
1. Chapter 1

**Having re-watched all of the Baxley scenes in Downton again, I decided to take the plunge and finally write down an idea I had. Currently planning a chapter two, but nothing - as yet - beyond that (though I promise nothing). I hope you enjoy!**

The shadows of the autumn sun were waving on the ground in front of them as the trees above softly whispered through the leaves, and the beauty of the moment almost stopped Joseph Molesley in his tracks. The dappled light warmed the stone walls of the village and the back of Phyllis Baxter's head in equal measure, and, pausing for a moment, he noted that that her particular shade of brown was the exact same as the conkers scattered across the ground. You would call it chestnut, he supposed. Or sable. That was a lovely word, sable. A member of the marten family, native to – Russia? Yes, Russia. He could remember the exact page of the encyclopaedia. Lovely animal, very sweet. Now, what else was on that page –

A small cough to his left brought him back to earth, and startled, he looked down to see a wry smile on Phyllis Baxter's face as she regarded him with no small degree of amusement.

"You looked to be in your own little world then Mr Molesley. Whatever are you thinking of?"

He felt his cheeks glow crimson and saw uncertainty flash across her face.

"I don't mean to be nosy," she added quickly, "please don't think I'm being rude. If it's something private you don't have to tell me."

"No, no, of course not!" he heard himself overcompensate, internally wincing at the high pitch of his panic. "I was just thinking how exactly alike the colour of your hair is to those conkers and – uh –".

She raised an eyebrow. "Conkers, Mr Molesley?"

"Yes, yes, conkers. They're the seed of the horse chestnut tree."

Repressing the urge to roll her eyes, Phyllis nodded serenely. "Yes Mr Molesley, I do know what conkers are. I just hadn't expected such reveries at the shade of my hair. I've always thought it a rather dull brown myself."

From the look on his face she wondered momentarily if she'd mortally wounded him.

"Oh no, you must never think that Miss Baxter! Brown is a lovely colour."

This time she felt her own cheeks reddening slightly, and looked at the ground – which was, indeed, littered with conkers – to hide them. Once she felt her face had sufficiently cooled, she risked a glance. He was looking into the distance again, a half smile on his face. She took pity this time and let him have his reverie. Her own thoughts were less peaceful.

It was her half day, and she had spent it on a much needed trip into York to buy supplies, but the trip had been considerably more lonely without her favourite companion. She understood that now Mr Molesley – Joseph, as she called him in her head – was a teacher, he had no afternoons off to come and traipse around the haberdasheries of York with her, but a small part of her resented the children for taking up so much of his time. It was very quickly stifled. He was a wonderful teacher, she had seen so herself – and heard glowing reports from Daisy – and she could see from his face that he was in the right place. No amount of silver polishing had ever lit up his eyes the way that telling children about the English civil war did. But still, though she knew it was selfish, she missed him. All day she had been looking forward to meeting him in the village after school and walking together. If she were truthful, she had been looking forward to meeting him in the village after school since she'd said goodbye to him after the last time, three days ago. Happy as she was for him, not seeing him every day was proving a cross to bear.

This time it was him who shook her out of a reverie.

"Do you want to get back, Miss Baxter?" he said, sadly.

"No, I've got plenty of time. Her Ladyship told me not to worry about hurrying back since it's just her and his Lordship home tonight so I can stay a while yet. Why – do you?"

"No, of course not, I look forward to our walks! It's just that you were looking so sad, I wondered if…" he trailed off, looking embarrassed, and she realised that her thoughts had been as visible as writing across her face. He had simply read them wrong.

"As do I, Mr Molesley." She reassured him. "In actual fact, I was just thinking that I wish we could meet more, and then I was chiding myself for being so selfish as to want to deprive the children of their teacher. I know how important education is to you and it gives you such joy. It just seems a shame…", and there she trailed off in turn.

The hangdog look had thoroughly disappeared as he led her over to a nearby bench on the edge of the village green and invited her to sit.

"I wish we could see each other more often as well." He said quietly. They smiled shyly at each other and for a second she could feel the space between them as if it were physical. It felt like a significant moment, a turning point. She looked down and waited with baited breath to see what would happen next.

"Miss Baxter – Phyllis – ", he began, but no sooner had she lifted her eyes to meet his then they were rudely interrupted.

"Hello Mr Molesley!" came a shout from the other side of the village green and they both looked up, startled, to see a child cycling along the road and frantically waving at them.

Phyllis snorted slightly as Joseph sighed and raised his hand to return the wave. "Hello Tom! Make sure you do your reading tonight!".

With that injunction the child – Tom – looked away and cycled faster, eliciting another chuckle from Phyllis.

"And what would that reading be?" she asked, hoping to distract herself from the disappointment of their lost moment.

"Oh, just a chapter on Elizabeth I. Tom missed the last few lessons because he's been helping his father, so I leant him a book to help him catch up. I know he may not read much of it – or any – but at least he can if he wants to. Might even be a nice change from the work."

"I wish I had had a teacher like you when I was younger." She mused absentmindedly.

He tilted his head at her questioningly and she hastened to explain.

"School was never something I felt particularly good at. I wasn't expected to continue and no teacher of mine ever expected I would, so I left when I was eleven and started in service. If had enjoyed it, I would have tried to stay on and do something more for myself, or maybe just kept up reading. I see how much joy it brings you and I wish I felt the same way. If I'd had a teacher like you – someone who didn't need me to get the best marks or be top of the class, but just wanted me to enjoy learning and get a good education – I think I'd feel a bit less backwards."

Impulsively, he reached out for her hand and held it between his.

"You are not backwards Phyllis, in any way. You are one of the smartest people I have ever met."

She blushed, and squeezed his hand in return. It did not escape her notice that he'd used her first name and she longed to hear him say it again. Apparently he had also belatedly noticed his slip, and as he frowned and opened his mouth to apologise, she interjected with the first thought that came into her head.

"I don't suppose with all your reading that you know anything about the name Phyllis? I've always wondered where it comes from. My mum just said she liked the sound of it whenever I asked her."

He laughed softly to himself and looked down. "Actually, I do. I was reading a copy of the Heroides the other day – some ancient poems written by a Roman called Ovid – and I came across the original Phyllis." He decided against telling her that he had specifically sought out a translation of the poems from the library in York to find out more about that mythical Phyllis. That particular detail might come across as more intense than thoughtful.

"The original Phyllis! So it's a Roman name?"

He shook his head. "Greek originally. Ovid wrote a whole series of poems from the perspective of ancient mythical women and Phyllis was Greek."

Greek, she thought. Almost exotic. "Do you remember her story? I'd like to hear it."

Every word, he thought. "Of course – give me a second and I'll put my teacher hat on."

Smiling at him, she settled down on the bench.

Clearing his throat and feeling slightly self conscious, he began. "Phyllis was a young woman, daughter of the King of Thrace. She led a charmed life until, one day, a young man named Demophon arrived in the country. Seeing him, she fell instantly in love and they soon married. He was duty bound to return home to Greece though, and so the day after their wedding he set sail to return home, promising to return and collect her. She gave him a casket containing a sacrament from Rhea – the mother of the Gods – and told him not to open it unless he had lost all hope of returning. He left and, over time, forgot about her. She returned to the sea shore every day hoping to see him, but he never came back."

Breaking off for a second, he looked at her. She was engrossed in his story, frowning slightly. "Then what happened to her?" she prompted.

"Well, the story splits in two after that. As one side goes, she was so sad she either died from grief or hanged herself. Demophon opened the box one day out of curiosity and was so horrified by what he saw that he went wild and fell onto his own sword."

Realising belatedly the inappropriateness of his subject matter, he regretted beginning the story. She was still sitting next to him – and holding his hand – so he continued in the hope he would not do too much damage.

"As the other story goes, he did remember and eventually return, but by then Phyllis had died from grief and turned into an almond tree. When he arrived and saw the tree, it started to blossom and grew almonds."

If only she had had a happy ending, he reflected. He should have lied and told her that Demophon returned and they lived happily ever after. A wiser man would have lied rather than making her sad. She wasn't one to choose the lie though, he knew that. They were both of the mind to face the truth, no matter how unpalatable.

"I suppose it really is a fitting name then." She muttered, so quietly he had to lean down to hear her.

"How so?" he asked, now truly worried about the effect of his story.

"Well, she died for the love of a man who did not love her back. Demo – phon, was it? – did not deserve her love but she was too naïve to realise. That strikes a little too close to home for me, Mr Molesley."

Of course, he realised. Coyle. That man's shadow was always following her, although since the aborted trial she had lost some of the darkness. How thoughtless of him to bring it back for her. Stumbling, he sought to reassure her.

"But you did not die, did you Miss Baxter? You blossomed – so to speak – even after the darkness you had seen. You have come through that, Phyllis, and you are stronger for it. It didn't destroy you like it destroyed her, or like it has destroyed so many others. Look at the trees around us! Phyllis literally means leafy bough – perhaps I should have lead with that – and see how beautiful they are. That's you." He finished, realising he had said slightly more than intended.

Whatever he had meant to say, his words had the desired effect. She was smiling again, with a certain glint in her eye.

"Thank you Mr – Joseph. That means a great deal to me."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment or two before another thought came into her head.

"If Phyllis means 'leafy bower', are there any significant meanings for Joseph?"

"Nothing quite so poetic, I'm afraid. Joseph comes from Hebrew, and it means 'to add or increase'. Hard to find anything significant in that."

Phyllis nodded slowly, looking up at the sky. "Well that makes you luckier still. You get to create your own meaning. Joseph Molesley, your own man."

He liked the sound of that. Especially from her.


	2. Chapter 2

**As promised (sort of), chapter two! This chapter kept getting away from me - I don't think either of them wanted me to end it (definitely blaming the characters and not my absolute lack of self control). Thank you for the reviews - it's always wonderful to hear that people are enjoying it!**

As the children cut out intricate snowflake designs from sheets of tissue paper, Joseph Molesley stared out of the window of the schoolroom. Recently he'd found himself doing that more often than he'd have liked. There was no reason to feel guilty, really. It was Christmas after all, and the children were far ahead of where they needed to be for the school certificate. They had worked very hard the past term and apart from a few troublemakers, they deserved an afternoon off. Anyway, the snowflakes would look wonderful decorating the windows of the school.

Still, he was not being paid to stare at the snow settling on the windowsill.

The bell rang and the children began to pile out of the classroom, dropping their completed snowflakes onto his desk as they rushed to get home before any more snow fell. As the final pair of boots raced out of the room followed by the whispers of a lingering "thanks sir", he breathed a deep sigh and shook his head, trying to focus himself on the task of decorating the classroom. As he did so, the snowflakes fluttered slightly in the breeze and a few balanced precariously slipped free and fell to the floor. Rushing to save them from the trails of mud trooped in by his students, he knocked a few more in his haste and quickly found himself surrounded by a pile of rapidly wilting snowflakes. Desperately scooping them up, he indecorously shovelled them back onto his desk before accidentally putting his foot on a particularly slippery streak of mud. His legs shot out from underneath him and he crash landed, breathlessly slumped on the floor with his back banging painfully against the desk. Grimacing for a second, he slumped against the desk, eyes closed and wincing at the pain. This is ridiculous, he thought. I am ridiculous. What is wrong with me?

A small cough from the direction of the door brought him back down to earth. Ah, he thought. That would be it.

"Miss Baxter! I was just – uh – "

She wrinkled her nose in amusement and tilted her head slightly. He supposed he must look utterly stupid in her eyes, and the realisation made him wilt in embarrassment. Phyllis Baxter watched in alarm as he seemed to crumple in on himself and quickly rushed to his side to salvage the situation.

"Mr Molesley – Joseph – I don't know what you've been doing but I think you could use some assistance. Am I right?"

He nodded, still refusing to meet her eyes.

"Here, let me help you up. You must have had a nasty fall if that noise I heard was you – no wonder with all this mud everywhere! An occupational hazard, I presume?"

He nodded again, before realising that the hand in front of his face was hers. Finally looking up, he was met not with disgust – as expected – but with a frank kindness he should have realised was entirely typical of her. Reaching up he clasped her hand, and both froze for a moment at the contact. She was wearing gloves, true, but they both felt the spark. Shaking his head to clear it, he braced himself, trying to put at little pressure on her as possible, and stood. For a second they were there, standing together with his hand still clasping hers and her head tilted up to his. The world went quiet and, unaware, he took a half step towards her – and promptly slipped again, this time pulling her towards him and threatening to unbalance them both. Without thinking, he reached out to grab her by the arms to steady them, bracing both against the desk.

The silence seemed to intensify as they stood there, closer than ever. Neither of them knew what to do and Joseph could feel the blood rushing to his head. Every heartbeat sounded like a drum beat, urging him on. Her eyes were wide below him. A tendril of hair had come loose, and unconsciously he reached forward to tuck it behind her ear. At the feeling of his finger on her cheek, she gasped and her eyes flickered shut. Her mouth was slightly open and summoning up his courage, he stroked along her jaw again and leant in.

The banging door to the school snapped them out of their reverie, and he swung around to scoop up the tissue shapes from his desk as quickly as she took a step backwards. By the time Mr Dawes walked in they were standing a respectable distance apart. The only clues to their respective distresses were Mr Molesley's vice like grip on the tissue snowflakes (which had already caused one, unnoticed, tear) and Miss Baxter's white knuckles (hidden under sensible woollen gloves).

"Well hello Miss Baxter." Boomed the headteacher. "I wasn't expecting to find you here?"

Phyllis blushed slightly, noticed only by Joseph. "No – well Mr Dawes, I came down to the village to give Mr Molesley his Christmas present and noticed he was still here when I walked past. I was offering decorative assistance just as you arrived."

"She was!" Mr Molesley interjected, a touch too loudly. "I was just about to start sticking these snowflakes on the windows."

Mr Dawes looked them both over – the slightly flustered looks on their faces, the bedraggled clutch of tissue in Mr Molesley's hands, and the slip marks of mud between them – and kept his observations to himself.

"Very good. Assistance is always appreciated, I'm sure. I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you on a very successful first term Mr Molesley. I consider myself to have a gift in finding unrealised potential and I am very happy to have found yours. I hope you are finding your new career equally rewarding?"

Mr Molesley nodded as though his head were steam powered. "Sir – Mr Dawes – I could never have dreamed of an opportunity such as this. I'm very grateful, and very fortunate."

The headteacher nodded slowly, smiling. "I rather think we are the fortunate ones Mr Molesley. Have a very merry Christmas – and you too, Miss Baxter. I hope we see much more of you in the village."

Noting the reprisal of their blushes at this comment, he smirked slightly to himself and nodded again.

The pair stood facing each other, frozen in indecision until they heard the door slam shut once again. Miss Baxter was the first to break, a thread of laughter weaving itself into her smile until her shoulders were shaking and she had to lean against a desk.

"Oh Mr Molesley. Who would have thought?"

Confused, he tilted his head as she had earlier. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand?"

"Oh, it's only – " she stopped to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye – "we do seem to be interrupted at the most inconvenient of times."

Realising, he too began to laugh, and soon both were leaning against desks, reliving the moment Mr Dawes had walked in.

"I'm rather afraid he wasn't taken in." Mr Molesley reflected, with a touch of worry. It would not do to make a bad impression on his new employer, and he certainly wouldn't want him to think he was courting women at the school. Was that what he was doing? Courting? The thought of courting Phyllis Baxter sent a jolt through him. He very much hoped he was.

"Well," she said, breaking his train of thought, "I wasn't entirely lying. I really do have your Christmas present with me. Here – I'll help you put up those snowflakes and then I can present it to you as intended. At least you'll have proof to corroborate the story if interrogated."

Snorting at the idea of Mr Dawes interrogating him, he handed her the slightly less damaged half of snowflakes – and there, again, was that spark as their fingers met – and set to work sticking them in the windows. The children had gone rather overboard and fortunately there were plenty, which made it somewhat easier to hide the damage. Any that were too far gone they discretely crumpled for the bin. The children were unlikely to remember exactly which ones were theirs and they really did have a lot, he rationalised – although he made sure to hide them under other rubbish so as not to crush any spirits. By the time they were finished the room looked wonderful, the windows white on the inside and quickly becoming obscured on the outside as well.

"It's a beautiful classroom, Mr Molesley." Phyllis said quietly next to him. "You must be very proud."

"Beautiful with your help, Miss Baxter."

Smiling, she shook her head. "It's the passion that makes it beautiful, Joseph. Your passion for education – it shows in the books, in the effort that the children make. It shows in your pride in decorating the room for Christmas."

Her apparently accidental slip of the tongue did not go unnoticed by him. "I have a surprise for you as well." He murmured, unwilling to break the spell. "I think we should leave for my cottage before the snow gets too heavy though."

The two buildings were a stone's throw apart – one of the perks of being a teacher in Downton – but Phyllis allowed the story to stand and took his arm as he led her out of the school. The snow had picked up, and there was at least half a foot by his door as he pulled it open.

"I hope you'll be safe getting back tonight." He worried, as she removed her scarf and hat, hanging them on hooks in the hall he had placed expressly for the purpose.

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She decided, unwilling to leave any time soon. "Her ladyship has already told me to take the evening off so I'm not needed back particularly soon. I can always wait a bit - hopefully it will die down and the walk isn't too far."

This struck both of them as a very obvious lie. Whether or not the snow died down, she would still have to fight her way through the ploughs up the – not inconsiderable – walk to Downton. However, both decided to ignore it in favour of lighting the fire – him, and beginning a pot of tea – her.

"Oh no, you must let me!" he cried, running into the kitchen as he heard her filling the kettle.

She smiled fondly. "But I know where everything is. You set the fire and that will keep us warm. I'll bring in the tea as soon as it's ready."

Returning to the little sitting room, he took a moment to mentally sweep for mess. There were the two sofa cushions, embroidered by Phyllis as a housewarming present, nestled on the sofa. The fire was gradually rousing itself to life in the small fireplace, and the screen was standing ready. On the side table by the sofa sat a book – his – and a ball of wool – hers, left by accident on her last visit. They had been so engrossed in conversation that they simply hadn't noticed the time, and in her haste to gather everything up and make it back to the abbey before she was needed the ball had rolled out and underneath the sofa. He had found it the next day as he morosely tided the room, and placed it there to remind him to return it. He also enjoyed seeing it, in pride of place like it was meant to be there. Like its owner had just popped out and would be back in to knit and talk any moment now. Like she lived here.

It was as he realised this that she walked in carrying a full tea tray, loaded with his father's old teapot (covered with a newly knitted cosy) and cups, and some snifters of cake he didn't recognise.

"Mrs Patmore offered them, said we had plenty going." She explained when she saw him looking. Of course, they had only been offered after much persuasion – he misses your cakes Mrs Patmore, he really does and I know he's coming back for a Christmas meal, but it would be so nice to remind him of all of us before then and they're only going to waste – but she didn't mention that. In fact, the fire in his eyes prevented her from doing anything other than setting the tea tray gently on the table – so there was that wool – and sitting on the sofa next to the cushion she had informally (and privately) designated as hers. She waited in anticipation. Knowing Joseph, she might be waiting a while.

She was surprised this time.

"Miss Baxter – Phyllis." he began, and then paused for a second at the use of her name. "I have something I think I must ask you. I don't know if – I mean, I hope that you – that is," and here he stumbled.

She had a flash of inspiration. "Before you do Mr – Joseph – I would like to give you your Christmas present." Turning and digging into her bag, she retrieved a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She presented it with a self-conscious sense of fake grandeur, and as he blinked slowly in surprise, smiled. "Go on, open it. I'd like to see what you think."

He nodded and began untying the string. Phyllis leaned forward in anticipation. She had thought long and hard about what to buy him, and it had come to her in a flash of inspiration. Normally she would have made him something, and the thought had crossed her mind, but she had already made him so much – the cushions, a new tea cosy and a blanket for his bed (a gift she had worried was too personal, but had deemed necessary if he was to avoid hypothermia). For Christmas, she had reasoned, she should spend money on something special. So, one trip to York later, she had decided on this.

He slowly peeled back the paper to reveal an edition of Ovid's Heroides, carefully bound in tooled brown leather with the title picked out in gold. For a second he was breathless.

"Phyllis, this is – this is too much."

"But do you like it?"

"I love it." He whispered. "This is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever bought me. This is absolutely perfect. I'm afraid my own gift will pale in comparison."

"All that matters is that you like it Joseph, and your happiness is its own gift to me."

He looked up and she was gratified to see his eyes shining. "Thank you." He said, clutching the book to his chest. They stared at each other for a few moments before he threw the hand not holding the book up in the air and then dove under the sofa, pulling out a slightly larger and lumpier package.

"I'm afraid it really does pale in comparison." He said shyly.

"A gift given with love is always enough. Lord knows I've had plenty few of those." She replied, and began unwrapping. A few seconds later she had revealed a long and delicately knitted scarf in deep navy blue, with emerald stripes weaving their way up the sides.

"I – uh – made it myself."

She looked up, shocked. "I didn't know you could knit! Mr Molesley, you kept that under your hat."

"Well, until a few weeks ago, I couldn't. But after you left your scarf here a few weeks ago and had to go without one until you could get it back, I thought you could do with another, and I wanted to make you something like the things you've made for me, so I – learnt."

"You learnt to knit so you could make me a scarf?" she repeated. "Oh Joseph. You are a wonderful man, and this is a wonderful gift. I love it. Thank you.". Holding it away from her, she studied the stitches. "You do have rather a gift for knitting as well it would appear. And the design is advanced for a beginner. Where did you get the idea? They almost look like leaves, or – ", and as she realised, she fell silent.

"Foliage." He finished. "Phyllis for Phyllis."

And it was at that moment that she could take it no longer. Placing the scarf in her lap and clutching handfuls of the soft wool, she looked him in the eye and made her own moment. "I don't know what you were about to say to me earlier Joseph, but I have something of my own to say to you."

His eyes were wide and hopeful. She could see sparks flying at the edge of her vision and feel her hands shaking in their woollen prison. The last time she had said these words had been the greatest mistake of her life, but she wasn't scared now. She wouldn't be scared anymore with him. Her life slowed down for a moment and she captured the frozen moment safe before changing everything.

"Joseph Molesley, I love you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for all the reviews - it really makes my day? My account decided not to tell me that I'd had any reviews for the last chapter, so when I checked and discovered them it was an extra boost (and then they were absolutely lovely as well which made it even better). Thank you lizzie-pj, Manygreentrees, cc71 and lemacd - it was a real boost to read such nice things when I thought no one had even seen it!**

 **The only-one-chapter-maybe-two-but-that's-definitely-it plan isn't going so well, as you can tell. I am planning at least another two chapters after this one but I don't feel quite confident enough to promise any more after that. Of course, that's what I said for the last two so we'll see (if you're coming to this in 2020 and it's a 300,000 word behemoth you get the full dose of dramatic irony). Authorial notes aside, I hope you enjoy this chapter - and as ever, please review!**

She wondered for a second if she'd made a horrible mistake. He sat there, slack-jawed and rapidly blinking and mentally she prepared to backtrack, to explain herself away as meaning platonic love. She highly doubted he would believe her, but it might spare her blushes if she insisted she meant love as a friend only and nothing more. Maybe they could even laugh at the misunderstanding. Something within her rebelled at the thought though. She did love him; she could not lie about it. It would be wrong to try, it would be dishonest and it would break her heart to see him laugh about it.

If he didn't feel the same, then maybe – though her gut twisted at the thought – they could stay good friends? Wait a few months maybe, and accept a certain degree of separation, but this didn't have to be it – did it? Maybe she should have waited, maybe she should have stayed quiet – but when she'd realised the depth of her feelings she couldn't stay quiet. It was that scarf that did it. The silence between them swelled and seemed to solidify into something oppressive, a dark cloud preventing her from even opening her mouth to begin explaining the offending words away. Feeling her eyes begin to fill with tears, she looked down and clutched the item that had caused all this mess.

Blinking slowly to stop the embarrassing flood, she unexpectedly felt a hand on her face. Looking up quickly like a skittish animal, the sight before her made her involuntarily gasp. He was smiling so widely it must surely be quite painful, and there were tears in his eyes that matched hers. He had reached over to straighten a lock of her hair that must have fallen out of place when she dropped her head. Tucking it behind her ear softly, he let his hand linger as though attempting to calm her. Unthinkingly, she reached up and held it in place. They stared at each other until he broke the silence.

"I'm so glad. I'm so – so glad you do. I think – I mean, I know – I love you too. Have for a while actually. I'm so – so glad you feel the same way."

And with that, her heart seemed to burst open as a grin split her face. He loved her too. This wasn't the end. For a second, everything she had been through seemed worth it to have brought her to this moment. The heartbreak, the shame, the loss of freedom – without it she would never have come to Downton, would never have met him. She could not remember being happier.

"Oh." She said, simply.

He seemed to understand the depth of her feelings despite the total inadequacy of her response as his smile – somehow – deepened. He gently stroked her cheek with his thumb and she unthinkingly leaned in to the pressure of his hand. A few moments passed before a shadow appeared on his face and he broke their gaze.

"I'm sorry." He said suddenly, and she froze. Did he regret telling her he loved her? Was he going to reveal some horrible secret? Oh God, she thought wildly, maybe he's already married and everyone's been too polite to say anything. Seeing the panic in her eyes, he realised his mistake and reached down again to grab her hands, clutching them in his.

"No, no, I don't mean anything bad, I only mean that I'm sorry you had to go first. It should have been me telling you, rather than you having to – make the first move, so to speak."

She relaxed in relief and laughed slightly, squeezing his hands in return.

"I just thought, since we seem to have so many interrupted moments, that I should finally say it while there were no children or head teachers around to intrude." They both smiled at the reminder. Blushing slightly, she continued. "You did scare me for a second though, when I thought you didn't feel the same way. You looked so shocked."

"I was just – still am – so happy. So surprised. That someone as wonderful as you loves me? It seems too good to be true, Miss Baxter. I never expected it."

"I think you can call me Phyllis now, Joseph." She said softly, and his grin broke free again. Then it was her turn to frown at him as a thought crossed her mind. "I'm not such a catch though. I'm a convicted thief and you're a respectable, law abiding man. Are you sure you want – me?"

He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "Phyllis. I love you. I know your history, but I promise, all I care about is your future. Have you stopped to think that maybe I'm not such a catch myself? I'm certainly not young."

"But you are kind, and clever, and a good man. The best of men. And I love you." She said firmly.

"Well, that's how I feel about you. I certainly find it hard to believe you love me as much as I love you. I know you, and I think you are the most wonderful person I have ever met. Certainly the strongest and the kindest, and considering the difficulties you've faced those are not easy qualities to maintain. That you have done so and continue to do so is a testament to the strength of your character and your innate goodness. I love you, Phyllis Baxter, and I will tell you so every day until you believe me, and then I will keep telling you because I don't think I can stop now I've started."

At this outburst, her eyes widened slightly, and he realised that it may have been a good idea to at least try to hide the full strength of his feelings. There was every chance she did not feel quite as strongly as he did and he didn't want to scare her off with too much too soon. Reading the fear in his eyes as his brows drew together, she leapt in to spare his blushes.

"I feel quite the same way, Joseph."

The relief was overwhelming, and he suddenly felt exhausted at the seemingly endless tide of such strong emotions. He couldn't remember having such an exhilarating hour. The lure of the cake and tea, so far untouched, began to grow. Seeing his eyes slide slightly towards the tray, she hid a smile.

"I think we definitely deserve cake and tea. I'll be mother."

She poured his tea and handed him a slice of fruit cake, choosing the piece with the most icing. They sat companionably for a few minutes, drinking the tea and eating cake. He placed his plate back on the tray and rested his hand on her knee as he finished his tea, looking thoughtful.

Draining her own cup, she felt his eyes on her, and she shyly looked down. Waiting a moment, she looked back up and saw him still staring at her.

"Do you have any more confessions to make, Joseph?" she teased, turning her head to smile at him.

He blushed slightly and leaned over to put his cup down. "No, I think I've quite spilled everything. I was just wondering – what do we do now?"

She raised her eyebrows and felt a small smirk ghost across her face. In for a penny, she thought. Carefully placing her cup in the side table, she turned to face him.

"I believe, Joseph Molesley, that we do this." She said softly, and leant in to – finally – kiss him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for all the reviews! FFnet let me see them this time, which was particularly excellent. Here - as promised - is another chapter (and yes, there are more coming - I really can't stop). Now I've written over 10,000 words and it's very much not just a one shot piece, I've had to actually date it - so this is set roughly a year after the finale (but I haven't gone into too much detail on any other characters, because Baxley, so it's still pretty loose). As ever, I hope you enjoy it!**

The kiss began chastely enough. They moved closer on the sofa and as it deepened, he impulsively ran his fingers through her hair and accidentally caused a sudden cascade of pins. Breaking contact for a second she paused, then reached behind and pulled out the last few pins to shake out her hair, letting it fall free past her shoulders. For a second she regretted it, thinking of the time it would take to restore before she could pass without comment back at Downton. The dark look in his eyes scuppered that doubt and sent a pleasant shudder through her. No man had looked at her like that before. Lust she had seen, certainly, but not that combination of lust and admiration. Love, she realised. He looked like he wanted to put her on a pedestal, worship her, and kiss her senseless all at once. Then stop thinking and let him do it, she admonished herself, and reached for him again.

For his part, the day was shaping up to be the best of his life. Kissing her was a wholly new experience. It felt comfortable, right – but also almost dangerous. Like he was being given a gift that did not rightfully belong to him. No man could expect joy like this, surely.

After what seemed like an eternity – and yet not nearly long enough – they broke apart. Neither of them could look away from the other. Her hair was now well and truly unpinned, cascading around her shoulders in lazy curls from its bun. Her eyes were large and deep, and her mouth was curled in a smile. He had never seen anything or anyone as beautiful. Curling his hands in her hair, he leant his forehead against hers. Normally he restrained himself from touching anyone, and he knew she did the same. It was polite, proper. Somehow, it would have felt rude to stay away from her now.

Phyllis found herself almost as shocked as him - albeit for different reasons. The kiss was spectacular, but it was the look in his eyes that had really taken her breath away.

"You are the best man I have ever known, Mr Molesley." She whispered.

They stayed that way for a while, and likely would have stayed even longer if not for an interruption from the clock on the side. At the first chime, they broke apart suddenly, shocked by the noise. They smiled at each other and both began to silently count the chimes, smiles fading as the clock kept going. As the ninth chime rang, they looked at each other with identical expressions of comical confusion.

"I didn't realise – " she began.

"Neither did I!" he exclaimed.

Quickly she turned and began gathering her things together, roughly repining her hair and wrapping the new scarf around her neck. She could always blame the weather for her less than immaculate state, she reasoned. Joseph sat back morosely and watched her prepare, absent-mindedly thumbing the pages of his new book. Finally everything was packed up and he stood up to help her into her winter coat, gently moving the edges of the scarf to make sure it lay flat. They looked at each other for a second, unsure what to say.

He opened the door, and just as quickly shut it again. Not fast enough, however, to prevent a gust of snow from blowing in and landing gently on his carpet. They looked at each other in horror.

"I'm so sorry Phyllis, I had no idea!" he exclaimed.

She shook her head nervously. "No, of course you couldn't have done. I didn't realise either, but it must be a good two foot deep by now and still going. Do you think I can make it back?"

"I think I would be a fool to let you try. I don't think Mrs Hughes or her Ladyship would ever forgive me either. It might get even worse on the walk and then we'd be stuck out there with no one to know!"

She frowned. "We?"

"Well, of course," he said as though it were obvious. "I'd not let you walk back on your own in this weather. I wasn't planning to let you walk back on your own anyway, but especially not like this."

He saw a smile flit across her face and then disappear behind worry.

"I don't know what to do. If I can't walk back to Downton I won't make it to the Bates's cottage, or the Carson's either. I could always wait a few hours and see if the storm settles down."

"Yes, but you'll be shattered tomorrow if you've walked back at midnight and haven't had any sleep. There's no guarantee you'd get in either, they'll have locked the doors long before then."

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Of course, you could stay here." He added quietly.

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

"No, no, not like that! I have a spare room – the previous schoolteacher had a son – and you'd be more than welcome to stay there. I don't mean – that is, Phyllis, everything would be perfectly above board. I promise."

More's the pity, she thought for a second, then reprimanded herself. They were respectable adults. Of course, it was highly improper, but she couldn't see any other choice. It was the best option: stay here overnight, then head off early – very early – in the morning, to make sure that she was in her bed when the maids came round. She could always claim to have slipped past the others – a headache maybe – and deny ever having stayed away overnight. No. That would be too obvious, and if she were caught out, too embarrassing. She would head back early, then tell Mrs Hughes the exact circumstances, she decided. Surely her reputation would prevent any serious doubts.

Slowly, she nodded, and he breathed a sigh of relief he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"Yes, alright. I will stay over – if you're sure – and head back early in the morning to make sure I'm back before anyone can miss me. I'll tell Mrs Hughes though, to make sure she knows. I think – it's highly improper, mind – but I think they'll understand. I don't see what else I can safely do."

"Exactly." He agreed, slightly too quickly. "It was snowing heavily earlier, they'll have realised by now that you won't be able to make it back. I'm sure they'll understand."

She shot him a slightly cynical look as she hung her coat back up on its hook and unwound the scarf again.

"I don't have much for supper I'm afraid – just some cold beef from the Sunday roast. I was planning to have it with some bread and mustard but if you'd rather have something else I'm sure I can – find something?"

"I think unless I want to eat snow you might find that difficult." She commented dryly. "Anyway, that sounds perfect. Shall I make some tea while you get it ready?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

Turning to the kitchen, he breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't wanted anything else. His cupboards were embarrassingly bare, and as she had noted, his list of alternatives non existent. He carefully placed the beef on a plate and sliced the bread into decent wedges as she boiled the kettle and steeped the tea. They worked together in a companionable silence, gradually putting the spread together. The final touch, which he did with a footman's flourish, was to light the candlestick in the middle of the old wooden table to add a touch more light. As they sat down together, she couldn't resist laughing slightly at the tableau.

"I was just thinking," she explained, "that this could almost be a scene in one of those romantic novels. It's just when they have the Eiffel tower and French food, we have Downton and roast beef."

He smiled, then looked serious. "You deserve Paris."

Shaking her head fondly, she began to slice her beef. "There is nowhere I would rather be than here."

Once dinner was finished and the plates washed, they returned to the sitting room and stayed there for a while longer – she knitting with the rescued wool and he reading his new book while the small fire roared. Although he wanted to hold her hand it looked difficult to manage with the knitting and so instead he settled for resting a hand on her knee, absentmindedly stroking the fabric of her black dress. By the time it turned ten, both were stifling yawns, and Phyllis was the first to break the spell.

"I think it must be time to retire for me. You don't mind?"

"Of course not! Let me show you to your room."

He escorted her upstairs, holding her hand as he led her up the stairs. Her room was small, with whitewashed walls and a fairly narrow single bed. He frowned upon seeing it.

"If you'd rather, you could sleep in my room and I could sleep in here? I know that might sound improper, but this room is quite small and I don't want my first guest to be uncomfortable."

"I am a small woman," she reminded him. "I'm sure I will be perfectly fine."

He nodded, looking unconvinced. Showing her the pitcher and basin – and assuming she would work out the other necessities without seeing him blush over them – he reluctantly turned to the door.

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" he heard her say behind him, and turned around to see her smiling shyly at him.

"But you're a guest!" he protested stupidly. Her smile deepened, and he rushed to explain himself. "I don't want to make you feel like you're under any pressure or obligation, or – or think I'm only offering you a room because I have other goals, or – anything like that." Saying that, he reflected, made it perfectly obvious the thought had crossed his mind.

Her head was tilted to one side as she stared at him, exasperated. "Joseph Molesley, come over here and kiss me right now."

He obliged.

It was been kind of him, she reflected, and she was very grateful – but she really was freezing. It felt as though she'd lain awake for hours in the bed, and although it was perfectly comfortable it was also ice cold. No matter how much she tossed and turned she just could not warm up.

"This is ridiculous." She muttered, and kicked off the covers, gasping a little at the loss of even that scant protection. She felt vaguely ridiculous, wearing only her cotton chemise and drawers for warmth. If she could have slept in her black lady's maid dress she would have done so, but the thought of having to iron out the wrinkles was a step too far. As it was, she felt almost dangerously underdressed and tiptoed as quietly as possible through the house on her quest.

In his room, Joseph Molesley also lay awake. Though he was cold too, his insomnia had a less physical cause. It was the image of her that prevented him from sleeping. What did she look like asleep? Her hair in one long plait spread behind her, her face resting. She was so close – and yet he could go nowhere near. It would be unforgivably rude, and improper. She already had little enough reason to trust any man's words. That she trusted his was a minor miracle in his eyes, and he didn't intend to risk it. But still, he couldn't stop picturing her, and the image was driving him mad.

"This is ridiculous." He huffed. "You are an adult, not a stricken twenty something with a lass on his arm for the first time. Get a hold of yourself man!"

As he lay awake still helplessly contemplating the colour of her hair in the dark, he heard a muffled noise. Bolt upright, he threw off his blankets and crept to the door. If it was an intruder, he would have to stop them before they could find her. He had to protect her. In his fit of bravery, it didn't occur to him to wonder what a thief would be doing at a schoolteacher's cottage in the middle of a snow storm. Instead, his spine straightened and he ran a favourite line of Henry V through his head for courage. Stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood, he chanted. For Harry, England – and on St George, he opened the door and marched into the corridor.

He was met by an unexpected sight: Phyllis, holding a foot in one hand as she leant against the wall, eyes closed and lips silently moving.

"Phyllis?" he asked, dumbfounded. "What are you doing here?"

She looked up, embarrassed to have been caught.

"Oh Joseph, I'm so sorry! Did I wake you?"

"No, no, I – uh – couldn't sleep. Whatever's the matter?"

She sighed and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes.

"I came out here looking for a blanket of some kind – or maybe your scarf in a pinch – and I stubbed my toe on a door. Nothing serious, just painful."

A blanket? He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. "I'm so sorry Phyllis, you must have been freezing to come out here! I didn't think. I don't have any spares, but please, take mine."

"But then you'll be cold as well." She pointed out softly.

"But you made the blanket! By rights you should use it."

"By rights I gave it to you, and I refuse to let you go cold Joseph Molesley."

A thought came into his head, and he blushed. She watched the crimson flare across his cheeks, visible even in the muted light, and smiled.

"I had thought the same thing. It really does seem like the only option."

His head snapped up. Did she mean – ?

"Yes, I do. It's just sharing a bed after all, we've shared beds with people before. And it's not like we have to tell anyone."

He was still frozen, and she wondered if she'd offended him. Opening her mouth to offer a third option (although what that could be she was still unsure), he suddenly snapped to life.

"If you're sure, then I would be more than happy."

Giving her his hand before she could change her mind and run, he led her into the bedroom. It felt forbidden, transgressive. He was excited at the prospect of breaking quite so many rules at once. Certainly more this evening than he'd ever broken before. But then – it also felt very right. Proper. Everything in place. He sighed in happiness as he watched her stand there, staring at the bed.

"Which side would you like?" she asked quietly, and he considered the question.

"I've never really shared, so I've not had time to pick one."

"No, me neither. I'll take the right then."

As they settled in he felt a little like sardines. Extremely conscious of the other's presence, both of them lay rigid underneath the covers. He was desperately corralling every cell of his body to stay in line and leave a good border between them. A no man's land, he thought to himself. The blanket border. As she reached down to pull the sheet up one of her feet broke ranks and grazed his.

He gasped at the feeling. "Your feet are like ice! You must have been so cold. I am sorry Phyllis."

She turned her head on the pillow to face him.

"Well, yes, I was."

Shame faced, he felt his cheeks heat.

"I can't say I can bring myself to mind too much now though." She added, and he fought to restrain a grin. "Obviously I just need to knit you some more blankets for any unexpected guests."

"Oh, I think you'll be my only one." He said without thinking, and then blushed again at the accidental implication.

"Joseph, I hope you don't think I'm being presumptive – but would you mind maybe holding me for a bit? I don't mean anything else by it, it's just I can't seem to warm up and I feel so cold."

His heart stopped for a second. Oh no, he didn't mind. He definitely didn't mind.

"Uh – uh – of, of course. Of course. Come here." This was highly improper, he knew, and if anyone at the abbey had found out – but still, they were here now, and she was freezing. If she needed him to set himself on fire to warm herself, he didn't think he'd have hesitated. He awkwardly removed an arm from underneath the covers and lifted the sheet slightly. She scooted towards him and carefully rested her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her – she hadn't been lying, she really was freezing – and drew the covers tight over them again. Sighing deeply, she nestled in.

"I suppose this is a step up." He muttered unconsciously.

"What was that?" she mumbled from his shoulder.

"Oh, I was just thinking out loud."

"Mmm?"

"Every time I think I can't be any happier, something else happens and I find myself proven wrong."

He felt, rather than saw her smile.

"I'll kiss you for that in the morning Joseph Molesley."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you, as ever, for all the wonderful reviews! Suffice it to say that they make me very happy to read (and consequently there are at least four more chapters either written or waiting to be written so this story is not ending soon). I hope you enjoy reading this one!**

Phyllis kept that promise. The sun woke her in the early hours, shining uninhibited through the threadbare curtains, and she felt like she'd suddenly and unexpectedly discovered a new world. He was still asleep by her side – by this point almost wrapped around her back, one arm buried under the pillow and the other possessively holding her close to him. She noted drily that in sleep, his eternal worries about propriety had melted away. Then again, there was hardly likely to be anyone around to see them. Turning slowly so as not to disturb him, she studied his face. He looked peaceful and happy, a small smile playing on his lips.

She stared at him for a while, before raising her eyes to the ceiling and closing them. She didn't feel quite so peaceful. Although she couldn't regret staying over, it would require some serious explaining to Mrs Hughes. Mr Barrow would understand (though slightly too well for her liking, if anything). At least she couldn't be accused of neglecting her duties since she'd known she wouldn't be needed. The snow really had been so heavy, there had really been nothing else to do. It had been a matter of warmth alone.

Well, that wasn't quite true. She could have left when it first started snowing. It's not like the task was urgent: there was still a week until Christmas and it would be an uncharacteristically small one this year, with Lady Edith staying in Brancaster Castle with her new husband. Just his Lord and her Ladyship then, and Lady Mary and Mr Talbot. And Mr Branson, of course. And the three children. And the Dowager Countess. And Lord and Lady Merton. Admittedly then, not that quiet. But it had seemed intolerable to wait and she had missed him so much.

That was the rub, really. Of course she could have waited to give him his Christmas present, could have picked a time when she there was no chance of getting stuck in the village overnight. She could certainly have done those things, but she had just so desperately wanted to see him and it had felt like such a long time since that she hadn't been able to think straight. Joseph made her feel calm again, strong again. She had needed that. Call a spade a spade, a voice in her head chided: all you needed an excuse to see him.

"Yes, well, it worked out for the best so I can't bring myself to care."

"What?" came a muffled reply from somewhere underneath her hair.

Her hands flew to her mouth as she realised that last part had been out loud.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Joseph, I didn't mean to wake you!"

He reached out and pulled her closer. Early morning Mr Molesley was swiftly becoming her favourite type of Mr Molesley. Fully awake and in less – scandalous – circumstances, she knew he would never have dared.

"I was already awake with the sun, I just wanted to stay in bed a little longer. I suppose you'll have to leave soon?" he murmured into her neck.

She shuddered – happily – at the feeling and nodded, reaching for his hand and pulling it tighter around her waist. "I have to get back as soon as possible. As long as it's not still snowing, that is."

Never had he more fervently prayed for snow. squeezing his hand once more, she moved to get up. Without thinking, he pulled her closer again.

"Mr Molesley, you know I have to leave." She mock scolded him, the glimmer in her eyes giving the lie to her sternness - had he not had his face buried in her hair.

"I know, I know. This time, I promise."

He released her, and she regretfully pulled herself out of bed and padded over to the window. The sky was a beautiful light blue and – sadly – free of fresh snow. The ground below was crystalline and pristine, sparkling in the early winter sun. She should be able to make it back, she reckoned, without any serious incident. It might take her slightly longer than normal, but if she left soon she would be safely in the house before anyone could miss her. Hopefully. Setting her mind to it, she tiptoed out of the room – he appeared to have fallen asleep again – and dressed quickly in the ubiquitous black dress and stockings, shivering in the freezing room. We'll have to warm it up somehow, she mused, then caught herself. It was his house, not hers. He would have to warm it up. She could always help though; another blanket would be a good start.

Fully dressed, Phyllis softly pushed open his door to say a final goodbye. She was met by the very unexpected sight of Mr Molesley pulling on a jacket over a slightly weather-beaten green jumper and fixing his hat straight in the small mirror.

"I must say, I thought you'd sleep for a while yet." She commented dryly from the door.

Joseph spun around and grinned at her. "I thought I'd walk you there! If you'd like the company, that is."

"Of course I would, but don't you have children to teach?"

"Saturday. I'm a free man."

Phyllis smiled abashedly. Of course, she'd forgotten in the crisis of snow. He actually had weekends now.

"In that case, I would be delighted."

She shrugged her coat on and he wrapped the scarf around her neck as they stood at the entrance to the cottage. As he reached over to open the door, she stopped him.

"Wait one second, I think there's something I need to do first."

Frowning, he turned to her.

"What's that?"

"This." And as promised, she kissed him again. It was more chaste than the night before, but still left her breathless as they broke apart. She hummed happily as he turned, dazed, to open the door.

Phyllis surreptitiously checked the street to see that no one else was nearby before she left the cottage. It would do no good to set idle tongues wagging, although she was well aware that eventually the entire village would know. For now, it could be their secret. They walked back up to the house in mostly companionable silence, trudging through snow drifts. It was heavy going and about halfway there, while crossing one particularly icy patch, she slipped slightly. He reached over and silently took her hand to help her over and didn't let go once they had cleared it. Despite the thick layers of wool between them, she could feel the warmth of his hand and clutched it tighter, rubbing her thumb across his as they walked. Eventually, though she dreaded it, the abbey came into sight and they stopped for a second to stare at the view. It really was spectacular in the snow – a proper Christmas card, she thought.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" he asked, sounding slightly forlorn.

Considering the question for a moment, Phyllis shook her head.

"People will only ask why you're there, and you can hardly say you were shepherding me back from your house in the early hours."

She watched for the blush to paint his cheeks and smiled when she saw it appear. "Thank you Joseph. I don't think I'd have made it back in one piece without your help."

"Oh, of course! It's been a very enjoyable morning. Evening as well, for that matter. I really am very glad you came round. Unutterably glad."

Joseph paused, a sudden frown clouding his face.

"And I almost broke my promise."

"What promise was that?" she asked, slightly worried.

"I love you, Phyllis Baxter, and I nearly didn't tell you today." He nodded once firmly, as though both pleased with himself for remembering and slightly self conscious at his – for once, unprompted – declaration.

She couldn't stop the smile spreading.

"You silly man. I love you too."

They stared at each other for a moment, holding hands and framed by the winter sun.

"Goodbye for now then." She whispered.

"Goodbye for now." He replied, and kissed her again.

Squeezing hands one last time, they parted ways, with him trudging back down the path to the village and her sneaking through the servants door. It was open, luckily, and she tiptoed inside to see Mr Barrow sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, obviously waiting for her.

"Oh." She said as she saw him, cursing her luck.

"Out for a morning stroll?" he asked, amusement sullying the feigned innocence in his voice.

Phyllis froze. She could lie, and say yes, but he would know. Would he make her explain herself? He could if he wanted to, he had the authority. Should she start off on the right foot and tell him everything, trusting that he wouldn't use it against her? Past history was not on the side of that argument, but her sense of honesty demanded it. She would tell the truth and be hanged for it, she decided, instantly regretting her choice of phrase. Opening her mouth to confess, he held up a hand to stop her.

"Let me guess. You were delivering your Christmas present to Mr Molesley – I take it the scarf was yours in return? – and without realising, you became snowed in."

She nodded, mutely.

"I won't ask where you stayed last night, and I can't imagine Mr Molesley being interesting enough to have done anything so I don't need to. You came back as early as you could this morning hoping to sneak in and avoid gossip, but were no doubt planning to tell the truth if prompted owing to your strict moral code. Am I correct?"

Phyllis nodded again, offended on his behalf at the slight to Mr Molesley but unwilling to push Thomas further by calling attention to it.

"You needn't worry." He drawled. "I told everyone you'd got back last night before the storm got really bad, and retired to bed with a powder for a migraine. Her Ladyship didn't ring for you – as I'm sure you expected – so no excuses there, and as far as Mrs Hughes is concerned, you were here all night."

She stood, silent.

"And don't worry," he added, "I won't tell anyone or use it against you, I promise. I'm trying to be good, remember? I'd rather you did something interesting than froze to death in a blizzard outside Downton. No one will know from me, I promise."

Blinking away sudden tears of relief, she smiled at him. "Thank you Mr Barrow. Thank you very much. And merry Christmas."

"Yes well, get to bed before someone sees you. I'll expect you down shortly for breakfast."

She nodded and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Miss Baxter?"

She turned around, head tilted.

"I told you so." He smirked, drained his mug, and stood to start his first cigarette of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you, as ever for all the review and support! I really have felt so welcomed for my first foray into the fandom (this isn't the end of the story, don't worry, I'm just having a moment). For what was supposed to be a one shot this story has really gained a life of its own - I hope everyone enjoys this latest chapter.**

After such a wonderful morning, the rest of the day dragged on seemingly endlessly for Joseph Molesley. He knew there was no way she would be able to visit again so soon – not with Christmas preparations up at the big house. He desperately hoped she had managed to smooth things over with Mrs Hughes and Mr Barrow – although the fact she hadn't turned up on his doorstep, dismissed for improper behaviour, rather suggested that she had. Knowing Phyllis, the close shave would only serve to make her stick even more rigidly to the rules. A straight arrow, he thought fondly. Still, it was hardly a sufferance. She was only a short distance away, he reassured himself. Just up the path at the Abbey, hardly any distance really. You'll be seeing her for a Christmas meal in a few days, and then for the servant's ball.

That knowledge didn't stop him from missing her something awful. That Saturday evening was intolerable in a way it had never been before, sitting alone in his cottage as the fire flickered with only a book and a cup of tea for company. While the peace and quiet had previously been something he cherished after the endless noise and bustle of Downton, now it ate into him, suffocating and heavy. The empty space where she should have been sitting looked bereft, rather than cosy. The table where her lost skein had been waiting for her return seemed like it in turn was waiting for something lost. The room was cold and empty, despite the roaring fire in the corner.

It had only been one evening, he reflected, but now everything reminded him of her. After half an hour of this torment he finally relented and slammed the book shut, uncharacteristically not even checking the spine or pages for accidental damage. Pulling on his scarf and coat, he was out of the house and halfway down the road before realising there was no way he could just turn up at the House and demand to see Miss Baxter. The whole idea – if there had had any coherent idea at all – was ridiculous. It was still snowing, albeit lightly now, and he sheltered for a moment underneath a tree, watching the flakes fall. It was picture perfect, he thought sadly. The kind of scene you read about in books, or see in films. Yet here he was, watching it fall, alone – again.

Further down the road he could see a light on in one of the windows and headed towards it without thinking. Knocking on the door, he was met after a few minutes by the sight of an old man, wrapped up in slightly moth-eaten woollens and blinking blearily, as though just awoken from a nap – which, Joseph supposed, he probably had been.

"Hello Dad." He said, sheepishly.

Mr Molesley Senior blinked a few more times, then shook his head in confusion. "Whatever are you doing here this time of night son? I wasn't expecting you round until tomorrow."

Shuffling his feet, Joseph nodded. "Oh aye, I'm still coming round for tea. I don't know why I'm here really, I just – needed someone to talk to, I suppose."

Drawing back slightly to get a better view, his father cocked his head to one side to consider his son. Joseph looked lost, a faraway cast to his eyes that Bill hadn't seen since Mr Crawley's death. Shoulders slumped and head bowed, he was the picture of dejection. It was not an entirely reassuring sight and Bill nodded slowly, frowning slightly.

"Come on in then. Make yourself a cup of tea, have a sit, and we'll have a talk about whatever's the matter."

Five minutes later, as the two were sitting on a pair of rickety armchairs in the front room and sipping tea from reassuringly old cups, Joseph sighed.

"That's half the problem Dad. I don't know what the matter is. There shouldn't be anything the matter at all, everything is perfect!"

Bill sipped his tea.

"Is there a woman?"

Joseph inadvertently answered the question by spluttering mid-sip, slopping his tea over the side of the cup onto his jumper, and sending a cascade of crumbs off the plate of biscuits in his other hand.

"What?" he said, hastily gathering up the broken pieces, too shocked to managed a full sentence.

Smiling at his son's clumsiness, Bill smiled sagely.

"In my experience, there's only two things that can make a man look so sad: money and women. Last time I saw you like this you had no stable job or income, and no sense of self worth because of it. That's not the problem now you've got a smart job at the school – so it must be a woman instead."

"Well, I – I mean – that is, she's definitely not a problem…"

Bill nodded, taking another sip as he watched his son squirm in embarrassment.

"So it's not a broken heart. That's some relief."

Sighing slightly, Joseph admitted defeat and put his cup down on the side table. After all, the tea was mostly on his jumper by now anyway. A smile crept onto his face at the memory of her wide eyes as she told him she loved him.

"No. Miraculously, she feels the same way."

Evidently, Bill thought, watching his son come over all moony as he looked into the distance. The sight reminded him of the first time he had met Phyllis Baxter – for he had no doubt as to who his son meant. She had been kind and polite, complimenting his garden and his locally famous roses in particular. All through that afternoon, as he had given her the potted tour of the cottage and fed her up with parkin and tea, Joseph had watched her with that same expression on his face. And although she was more guarded, Bill had noticed a similar softness in her own eyes whenever she looked at him. That she felt the same way, in her own way, he had no doubt. Shaking his head to clear it, he frowned and leaned back in his chair.

"So if you love each other and you both know it, whatever's the problem m'lad?"

Joseph threw up his hands in frustration.

"I don't know! I just miss her. She works up at the Abbey, and now I don't get to see her as regularly as I used to, I just – feel a bit lost without her."

"Well, there's an easy solution to that."

It was Joseph's turn to frown. Bill sighed again.

"Marry her."

Setting down his tea cup turned out to have been an excellent decision, as he would undoubtedly have dropped it in shock. As it was, his hands flailed uselessly for a second as his eyes went saucer-wide.

"M – marry, marry her?"

"You love her, she loves you, what's the obstacle?" Bill observed sagely.

"Well – I'm not exactly young."

"That never stopped anyone."

"I don't know if it's too soon! We only admitted to our feelings – well – yesterday. Isn't it a bit quick to be moving into thinking about marriage? Won't it scare her off?"

"The way I see it, you've known each other for a good four years. You're good friends. You get on. You've lived together – in a way – before. You both love each other and to my mind, you're both so slow about getting anything done you need someone to kick you up the backside, point out the obvious, and get you moving."

"Dad!" he exclaimed, taking a second to absorb so much at once. A thought crossed his mind as he processed the speech.

"How do you know I've know her for four years?"

"Well, it's Miss Baxter, isn't it? Lovely, kind woman, always happy to help. You've chosen well son. Easy on the eye too." And with that, he winked.

Joseph sat back in a state of shock.

"You knew?"

"I'm your father, and I have eyes. Of course I knew." I think everyone does, he added silently.

"You're right." Joseph said slowly.

"Well, aye, but about what specifically?"

"I should propose. We're not young – well, I'm not – but that doesn't mean we should wait around. If anything, we should make the most of the time we do have! I love her and, remarkably, she appears to love me as well. She could still work up at the Abbey – like Mrs Bates does. We could live in the schoolteacher's cottage." I would see her every day, his mind added. We could share a bed every night and wake up together every morning. I could hold her all weekend. She could knit a spread for the other bed, and make some cushions for the sofa. It would be our home, not just my house. She would have a real home, with me.

Watching the glow of contentment spread across his son's face, Bill Molesley congratulated himself on a job well done. Joseph was a well meaning lad, and Phyllis was a lovely woman, but they weren't half slow. Whatever had prompted them to reveal their feelings – and he rather suspected Miss Baxter had been the spark there – they would need another push to get anywhere with them, rather than just pining for each other on either side of the village. The determination in his son's jaw reassured him that the message had been loudly received. The expression reminded him of himself as a lad for a second – and gave him an idea.

"Wait a moment son, I'll be right back down." He said, and raced upstairs.

Returning to the room, he found Joseph now risen and walking by the fire, pacing rounds on the carpet. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Bill raised a finger.

"Now just wait one second. I want you to have this." And so saying, he handed over a small, beaten leather ring box. They both knew what it contained, but still Joseph opened it and smiled at the sight – half sadly and half fondly.

"Are you sure?"

"She'd have loved Phyllis. I'd like her to have it."

"Thank you Dad." Joseph said quietly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you for the wonderful reviews - I'm oddly proud to have made people cry (although I am sorry, hopefully this chapter is slightly less intense!). For those waiting on edge for the proposal (mrs-molesley, looking at you) - don't worry, it's coming, I promise. I would never lie about Baxley...**

Phyllis spent the day on edge, waiting to be interrogated at any moment on her unexplained nocturnal absence. She knew it was likely just paranoia, but people did seem to be giving her strange looks and she could have sworn she caught Mrs Patmore staring at her over dinner. No one actually said anything though, and she was forced to admit Thomas must have been true to his word. Not that she was sad about that; it was just unexpected. A pleasant surprise, she decided.

She did, however, face a barrage of questions on the state of her head. It felt a little like everyone downstairs had been instructed to ask if her headache had gone and by the end of the day it was threatening to become real. Every time she reassured them she felt a small stab of guilt about keeping up Thomas's lie –but not enough to reveal the alternative and face whatever the inevitable consequences. She had done nothing wrong, she reminded herself sternly – and repeatedly. Instead she just kept smiling and nodding, not trusting herself to give any details.

The guilt was also somewhat diminished by the sheer feeling of joy radiating through her. It was such a relief to know that she hadn't been dreaming. She wouldn't have to keep her feelings hidden anymore; he loved her. He loved her, despite everything. She'd always known, in some corner of her heart – how could she not when he looked at her like that? – but it had been safer to ignore that voice of hope in favour of solid and reliable pragmatism. To hide the extent of her affections – as best she could – and assume that all he felt was friendship. She was unutterably relieved to have been wrong.

Not that she had ever really tried to restrain her feelings, she reflected later that evening. She sat in the kitchen accompanied only by a large mug of tea and yet more sewing (beginning the bedspread for that second best bed in earnest after her experience). It may not have been a passionate, heart stopping or dangerous romance like one of the Crawley daughters or younger maids might have had – he was no Branson and she was definitely no Lady Sybil from the stories she'd heard – but she thought they had found something just as good, if not greater. Kindred spirits. Strength.

She'd had stormy relationships like that before. Been afflicted with a mad passion that overruled her head and led her into places she would never willingly have gone – and had paid dearly for it. Her very soul revolted at the idea of returning to that state. That wasn't to invalidate what she felt now: after all, passion came in many forms. It may not have been a stormy love affair but her feelings for him were no less strong – a calm lake, but no shallower for it. They had been friends for so long that those years of getting to know each other and recognising their compatibility, relying on each other, and finding their places had led them to this point without even realising they had arrived. It felt comfortable. Safe. It felt, she reflected, as though they'd been married for years already.

At that, she dropped her work and a bolt of panic shot through her. As though they were married. Marriage. It wasn't something she'd thought would happen to her. She had dedicated herself to working hard and building a career at an early age, and balancing marriage and a job was difficult. Then, when marriage had been at the front of her mind, she had lost everything in one fell swoop – freedom, reputation, friends. She had seemed fated to be a spinster. To be certain she'd found herself absentmindedly daydreaming of being Mrs Molesley – she was only human after all – but it had never been with any seriousness, and she'd always stopped herself. Marriage itself – being married to someone else, sharing a life with them – had not been something she'd needed to think about. But if there was one thing she knew about Joseph Molesley, it was his penchant for taking things seriously and doing them properly. Marriage would be the next logical step now they both knew how the other felt. It made sense.

They were both old to be first time newlyweds but that had never stopped anyone: it hadn't stopped the Carsons. She would easily be able to continue her work at Downton and live in the cottage with him: Anna had already shown that that was possible for a Lady's Maid. She knew she loved him – rarely had she been more certain of anything. She knew he loved her. They could both continue working. They would have a place to live.

No, she realised. It wasn't any of those things that made her panic. It was something greater.

For all his quips about coffee, Joseph had always been very astute about her character. She was naturally independent, and had become more so since the incident with Coyle. She had sworn then never to let anyone – any man especially – influence her or lead her astray again. Her relationship with Mr Barrow had tested that promise but she had stayed true to it (albeit with help from Mr Molesley, a voice reminded her). Marriage would change that. She had built a career and salvaged a respectable name for herself and by herself. How could she let all of that go for the sake of a man? Not just any man, of course. Him. But still, in principle, it seemed wrong. It seemed dangerous. She felt waves of panic crashing in, helpless to stop them. What had she done? She was tied to him now – he knew how she felt, he knew how she felt – and surely he would be thinking about marriage? Why had she not thought about it earlier? Why had she not thought about how it would make her feel? What would it do to him if she said no? Could she say no for the sake of something so ridiculous?

"What should I do?" She muttered unconciously to herself, wringing and twisting her hands together in a silent prayer.

Her head spun round as she heard a noise from the doorway, but she couldn't see anyone there. She did, however, spot a light underneath Mrs Hughes's door, and an idea came to her. It might seem inappropriate – certainly more than might – but of anyone, Mrs Hughes was the most likely to understand her feelings. In any case, she was beginning to feel desperate and by this point, she'd have willingly unburdened her soul to Mr Barrow. Gathering her courage (to the sticking place, whispered a voice that sounded suspiciously like Joseph), she packed her needles haphazardly into her work bag and rinsed the tea cup. Raising her hand, she knocked as firmly as she could on the housekeeper's door.

"Come in." came a voice in reply, and breathing deeply, she turned the handle.

If Mrs Hughes was surprised to see her, she didn't let it show.

"Oh, Miss Baxter. I do hope you're feeling better."

Looking down to hide her guilty expression, she nodded. "Yes, I am, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear it. What was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

Biting her lip, Phyllis considered the best way to phrase her question.

"It's something of a delicate matter, Mrs Hughes. I'm not sure it's entirely appropriate, but I've no one else to ask."

Raising her eyebrows as her eyes widened slightly, Mrs Hughes nodded to the chair. "You'd best close the door and sit down then. Whatever it is, I'm sure I've heard worse."

Phyllis moved to sit before being struck by a thought. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"By no means. I was just finishing up here for the evening. Now, go on. What was it you wanted to ask?"

"I was just – wondering – and please, tell me if this is impertinent in any way – when you agreed to marry Mr Carson – well – how did you feel about it?"

Elsie frowned. She had never seen the woman look like this before. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears and she looked about to either laugh or cry. Coming from someone so controlled, it was uncharacteristic and deeply concerning. Even when the police had arrived, she hadn't looked like this. Before she could open her mouth to reply, Miss Baxter shook her head and started again.

"I'm sorry, I should have phrased that better." She flustered. "I mean – did you feel like you were losing a part of yourself? Was it strange, having to tie yourself down? Oh, no, I don't mean that how it sounds – "

"Don't worry." Elsie said softly, finally understanding the other woman's dilemma and anxious to spare her tying herself up in knots getting at it. "I know exactly what you mean. Yes, having been a spinster for so many years, it did feel a little strange to suddenly have someone else so much in my life. For a moment it almost made me say regret saying yes. I even thought of turning around to him and saying I'd changed my mind, but I'm very glad I didn't. Marrying Mr Carson has brought a great happiness to my life that far outweighs any discomfort. Married life was definitely a change, I can tell you that," – images of roast lamb came, unbidden, into her head – "but it was one of the best choices I've ever made."

Phyllis nodded, and leaned back in her chair. She looked relieved, Elsie thought. Something was obviously still playing on her mind, but the wildness had at least faded from her eyes. Concealing a smile, she couldn't resist the next question.

"Do you have any reason for asking, Miss Baxter?"

The scarlet blush told her the answer.

"I see."

Opening her mouth to automatically deny whatever the other woman had assumed, Phyllis paused. Realising she had no good answer to give – and that whatever conclusion Mrs Hughes had come to, she was probably right – she just nodded instead.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. You've given me a great deal of comfort."

"Well, I'm happy to be of service. I hope you get a better night's sleep tonight." Elsie could have sworn she saw the blush flare again on Phyllis's cheeks at that as she slipped out of the door. Better not question that one, she thought, taking a sip from her hastily hidden glass as she chuckled to herself. I'm sure we'll all find out soon.


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm glad people enjoyed the last chapter! I personally would have loved to have seen more between Mrs Hughes and Phyllis (although, can't lie, more Phyllis full stop would have been excellent). Glad to address the deficit here! I would also like to give my thanks to those reviewers who have been reading and reviewing every chapter: mrs-molesley, cc71, lemacd, Katie Duggan's Niece, Alaura and manygreentrees, as well as everyone else who's reviewed, thank you all so much - it means so much to me to have such loyal reviewers 3**

They were both desperate to try and take a moment alone together before the servants' Christmas meal, but with Mr Barrow watching them like a hawk and everybody rushed off their feet there wasn't a spare second. They had managed to sit next to each other at church that morning at least, sharing small smiles throughout the service. He belted out the carols in a mostly accurate alto with her smaller but strong voice harmonising, and it gave him a rush of joy to hear them singing side by side. He had even plucked up the courage to hold her hand through the service, burying their clasped gloves underneath her scarf so as to not attract attention. There was a moment of sadness as they split up after the service: her to rush back and help set up the Christmas meal, and him to head home – but, as he reminded himself, he would be heading up to the house shortly to see her again. Two hours was surely manageable after a week apart.

He had been looking forward to returning to the servants' hall for the Christmas meal since the invite had arrived. Originally, he'd been resigned to a quiet Christmas at home with his dad – something that brought up uneasy memories of the year spent desperately moving between jobs and digging himself into debt – and had been somewhat dreading it.

Rather unexpectedly, it was Mr Barrow who provided relief on that front. The butler had appeared on his doorstep one evening at the beginning of December with a smirk on his face that was quickly schooled into a sneer – though not before Joseph noticed it and felt his stomach drop. Muscle memory, he supposed.

"Hello Mr Barrow." He said, somewhat redundantly.

"Mr Molesley. May I come in?"

"Uh – yes. Yes, of course."

Inviting the man who had always made him uneasy into his house felt strange to Joseph, but he politely offered to make him a cup of tea regardless, showing him into the front room.

"No, I won't be here long." There was a pause, and then – "Thank you though." He added belatedly.

This would be an example of his new manners, Joseph thought. He had heard from Phyllis – Miss Baxter – that the butler had intended to turn over a new leaf since returning to Downton, and over the last year it seemed to have proved true. The few times he had been called to help back up at the house – though those were becoming fewer and fewer lately – the butler had been courteous and respectful to everyone. Calmer than Mr Carson, if sharper, he was putting his own stamp on the role and Joseph was glad for him. However, Joseph had yet to reap the benefits. Although Mr Barrow was polite to everyone else, there was no noticeable change in their relationship. He supposed it was his friendship with Phyllis that made the man distrust him. They certainly had a history, after all.

Seeing him in the schoolteacher's cottage was extremely unexpected and both sat awkwardly for a few moments while Joseph adjusted to the sight and decided what question to ask first, conscious of his failings as host. Before he could decide on the best approach to the unprecedented situation, he was brusquely interrupted.

"I've come to invite you to the servants' meal at the House on Christmas Day, Mr Molesley. You won't be expected to help out upstairs or downstairs – we've quite enough people – but in recognition of the help you've given us over the last year, I'd like you to come to the meal. You're welcome to come to the servants' ball as well, although from past experience I'd personally rather you didn't drink."

Charitably ignoring the jibe Thomas evidently couldn't resist adding, Joseph sat back slightly in shock.

"Well, that's certainly very kind of you Mr Barrow. I'd love to attend - I was only planning to have a small meal with my dad, so –"

"Well, bring him as well." Mr Barrow added quickly. "Can't leave him on his own on Christmas Day - the more the merrier."

Now Joseph was truly stunned. Eyes wide, he stuttered out his thanks.

Nodding shortly, Mr Barrow stood to leave, a glint in his eye.

"It'll be good to see you there Mr Molesley. You can keep Miss Baxter company. She's been awfully lonely since you left."

Reflecting on this incident as he hovered in the servants' hall, watching the table being laid and heavy dishes brought in, Joseph began to suspect that Mr Barrow had had something on his agenda other than simple festive kindness. He must have had a suspicion of their feelings and subtly tried his best to push them together. That was the charitable reading, anyway. It was surprisingly thoughtful of him. Almost kind. In a way, it felt like a very tentative blessing – and Joseph appreciated the tacit support.

As he stifled the expression of shock that had spread across his face at the thought of Mr Barrow being kind to him, she walked into the room. Within seconds shock melted to an expression that Mrs Hughes, who was subtly watching the interaction from the doorway, would later describe to Mrs Patmore as "pure sappy puppy dog". Phyllis spotted him in turn, adopted her own slightly more restrained version of his expression, and swiftly changed her path to meet him.

They stared at each other for a second, both aware they could not embrace as they would have liked and both resisting the urge to do so anyway. She broke contact first to look around, checking that no one was near enough to hear them.

"Merry Christmas Joseph." She whispered, and hearing his name spoken by her here gave him a remarkable frisson of excitement.

"Merry Christmas Phyllis." He replied, watching the same spark of illicit pleasure light her eyes. "It's a shame we didn't get more time to talk earlier."

"It certainly is," she readily agreed, "I would have liked to have stayed much longer. It is good seeing you back here again." At this she leaned back slightly to consider him, and reached over to brush a sport of dust off his collar. "I don't think it's quite your world anymore though."

"Oh?" he managed.

"No. You don't quite look like you belong here. Not in a bad way," she hushed to reassure him, "but you move in different circles now. It must feel strange for you, coming back."

"It is." He readily agreed. "You've hit the nail on the head there – I feel like an outsider, watching everything happen around me, even though I lived here only a few months ago. It's throwing me quite off balance."

She tilted her head to one side slightly. "I'm glad, in a way. Not about you feeling strange, but that you left at all."

He felt his eyes widen, and must have looked quite pathetic, as she quickly rushed to explain herself.

"I think if we had both stayed here, seeing each other every day and comfortably carrying on as we always did, we might never have said anything about how we really felt. We needed that change to shake us up and make us realise what mattered. You needed to leave and do a job you were meant to do. It was a brave thing you did starting over again Joseph, and I'm so proud of you for doing it. And for doing so well at it!"

"I don't know if I'd say it was brave." He stuttered, flushing at the barrage of compliments.

Her eyes were fierce as she stared. "You started a new career and built yourself up from scratch. They love you at the school Joseph, everybody's told me so. You've done so well, and you don't even realise how impressive you are. Few people could have managed what you have."

He felt himself smiling dopily at her again, and forced himself to tone the smile down a few degrees. From her answering expression, he didn't think he'd been particularly successful.

"Phyllis," he said slowly, "would you like to meet me after the meal outside in our normal spot? I'd like to talk more privately, where we're not having to dodge around people or whisper."

For a second he thought he saw fear flash across her eyes, but it was swiftly replaced with happiness.

"Of course. I look forward to it." She managed, before Mr Barrow called everyone to the table to start the meal. As Phyllis moved to stand behind her seat – and Joseph moved next to her, pushing his luck slightly but hoping that his status as guest meted him some privileges – he noticed a glance pass between Phyllis and Mr Barrow. She turned away, shaking her head slightly as her eyes rolled, while his mouth turned up in a knowing smile as he turned to look at Mr Molesley.

"Are you alright there Mr Molesley? Mr Molesley senior?"

Both Molesleys nodded, Mr Molesley senior moving to stand behind the chair on the other side of Phyllis.

"Good." Mr Barrow said shortly. "I'm glad that everyone is where they're meant to be, especially today of all days."

Oh yes, Joseph thought as he heard Phyllis snort slightly. He definitely had an agenda.

As they filled their plates with food, he kept sneaking glances towards her. Anticipating her next move, he reached over to pick up the gravy boat. Passing it over, he knocked it slightly and a small lake pooled onto her plate.

They looked up at each other as a smile quirked at the side of her mouth and his eyes widened with guilt at having ruined her dinner with too much gravy.

"That's just about perfect, thank you – Mr Molesley."

It felt strange having him sit next to her when they were meant to be in their proper places – especially since he hadn't sat next to her at this table for so long. It brought back a whole host of feelings that she forced herself to swallow down with the food. Foremost was the sense of comfort and safety that she always felt around him: a warmth from having such a kind and dear man by her side. But there was also the memory of the sadness she'd felt, having him so close and yet so far away. She hadn't been wrong before, she reflected as she spooned up some of her gravy lake. If he hadn't left, there was every likelihood they would have continued on in the same vein forever. Certainly, there had been nothing wrong with the way things were; at least she had known what to expect. The current state of affairs was new and untested waters for her – for both of them – and it had sent her into a tailspin. Mrs Hughes was still watching her carefully, evidently worried by her uncharacteristic outburst the other day. Their conversation had helped though, and she was feeling less scared and more – excited, she decided. Excited about whatever was to come. No, there had been nothing wrong with the way things were – but they were definitely better now.

As she came to this conclusion a small cough came from the head of the table, and she looked up to see Mr Barrow watching her carefully.

"Are you enjoying your meal Miss Baxter? You certainly look deep in thought. Not philosophising over gravy?"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes again and smiled instead.

"No, Mr Barrow. Not over the gravy at least. I was just thinking what a lovely occasion this is. How nice to have everyone back together for Christmas."

She could practically feel Joseph radiating affection on her left, but she studiously resisted the urge to turn and smile at him, knowing that if she did they would have no chance of keeping anything private. The way he was looking at her earlier, he'd probably drop to one knee then and there at the table if she so much as gave him a glance. While she wasn't looking though, Mr Barrow definitely was, and whatever he saw was enough to make him smirk at her with a strange expression of something like triumph on his face.

"I thought you'd appreciate Mr Molesley's presence. Presences, I suppose, seeing as we have the full set. You two were always such good friends."

Luckily everyone else was engaged in their own conversations so they missed his remark, but she checked by instinct to make sure no one was listening in anyway. It would probably be perfectly fine – to anyone else it was innocuous – but she was always wary of Thomas's teasing. He had a tendency to take things a step too far, and she was not prepared for him to use her friendship with Joseph (more than that now, a voice whispered) as fodder anymore. Before she could come up with a reply, she was saved – as ever – by the man himself.

"Well, thank you again for the invitation Mr Barrow. There's nowhere else I'd have rather been on Christmas Day."

She knew what he was really saying, and impulsively reached across the table to squeeze his hand. The action was mostly hidden from view by the multitude of serving bowls, so luckily for her only Mr Barrow and Mr Molesley senior noticed. The latter hid a smile behind a forkful of Yorkshire pudding and wondered if his son had the ring on him. The former lost his smirk and gained a genuine smile.

"Happy to have helped." He said, sipping his drink. "Merry Christmas Miss Baxter."


	9. Chapter 9

**Posting a day early (because quite frankly, we've all waited long enough) - w** **ithout** **further ado, here's the good stuff (I hope)!**

The meal was as delicious as Joseph remembered, and by the time he was finished his plate had refilled and emptied itself a few times over. If the other empty plates around the table were any indication, he wasn't alone in the assessment, and leaning back, he sighed happily. His father was engrossed in a conversation with Mrs Patmore and Mr Mason about the best soil to plant roses in – apparently, all parties had strong opinions on the subject, something which didn't surprise Joseph (although he had certainly never heard Mrs Patmore wax lyrical on gardening before). Mr Barrow was sipping his drink, happily surveying his land and subjects. The Carsons were talking quietly, heads bowed together – and Mr Carson looked significantly happier than when he'd arrived, which Joseph took to be a good sign. It must be even stranger for him, coming back. Joseph had only been there for a few years, after all, and he'd had family just down the road when he needed to get away. Mr Carson had lived here for most of his life. He had built his reputation here, staked his name on it. He had fallen in love here.

In some respects then, maybe they weren't so different. She sat next to him, finishing off her meal and exuding a calm contentedness. As he stared at her, eyes going wide again with love, a small hand crept into his and squeezed it. Her eyes flicked up to his for a moment, and he saw a spark of amusement flash before she quickly looked back down at her potatoes. Taking the hint, he squeezed her hand again and averted his gaze, glancing around the hall and uncomfortably settling on Mr Barrow. For once, he was met unexpectedly with an almost friendly face.

"I trust you enjoyed the meal, Mr Molesley?"

"Yes, very much. I've missed Mrs Patmore's cooking – my feeble attempts aren't up to much, I'm afraid."

Thomas opened his mouth to say something, but remembering his resolution closed it and nodded. The effort cost him something, and all he could manage to say was "Well, I'm glad to hear it."

Hearing this, Phyllis looked up at him. Knowing Thomas, she could well imagine what he might have wanted to say in reply – and was grateful that he hadn't. He smiled banally at her and she quirked her lips at him, inclining her head subtly in thanks. No one else would have recognised what she was silently saying, but as he raised his glass to her the message was clearly received. Around the table, people began collecting plates and readying themselves in preparation for the family's main meal, and she noticed Joseph hesitate. She took a deep breath. This was the best opportunity they would get. Leaning over, she whispered into his ear.

"Would you like to take a walk outside with me?"

He looked up, startled. "Aren't we needed here? I mean, I would like to – of course I would, but I don't want to get you in trouble."

She shook her head. "There's plenty of people here to help, and her Ladyship won't need me for another hour at least. Anyway, you're a guest."

He smiled and nodded, letting go of her hand as they stood and moved towards the door. Amidst the noise and bustle, hardly anyone noticed them leave. Mr Barrow did – senses always alert to the possibility of illicit activity, it was impossible for him not to. Rather than commenting or drawing attention to the pair, as the Mr Barrow of Christmases past would have done, he just took another sip of his drink before passing a dirty plate over to one of the maids. Mrs Hughes also watched them slip through the door, while one ear listened to her husband pontificate on whether they could afford to expand the business. Phyllis looked calmer than she had the other night and she decided – while she nodded sympathetically along with Charlie's monologue on his latest disagreement with the maid – that they deserved privacy. Mr Molesley senior was the only other person to notice and as the back door opened and quietly shut, a few snowflakes drifting through, he almost wished he'd placed a bet on his son carrying the ring.

The two of them stood for a moment, surrounded by lightly swirling snowflakes.

"It was like this the other night." He said absentmindedly, and she tilted her head in confusion.

"Like what?"

"Well, it looked like this, I mean. It was snowing, and it looked so beautiful, and I found myself wishing you were there to see it with me. And now you are."

She smiled up at him and took a step closer, clasping his hands in hers.

"Merry Christmas Joseph."

"Merry Christmas, Phyllis. I still – still can't believe this is real." He confessed, kissing her hands as he drew her closer.

Her smile deepened.

"Do you know Joseph Molesley, I've been mulling it over, and I think I've loved you since that day we sat together on the beach. I remember looking out at the sea and then looking back at you, and your eyes were closed, and you were leaning back against the rocks, and you looked so – content. It made me feel safe, being there with you. I loved you then, and I love you now. Whatever it is you wanted me out here to say, say it."

He nodded.

"I think I've loved you since the first moment I saw you. It just took me a while to realise it – and then even longer to be brave enough to say anything. I wish I had told you how I felt sooner, so we could have had more time together, and I wish I had told you first. I know I might not be the greatest catch – "

She screwed up her face slightly and shook her head in disagreement, and he chuckled.

"I love you Phyllis, and I want to make the most of the time we have left. I want to spend every moment with you, but I will settle for us being home together every night and waking up together every morning. No – settle is the wrong word. I would be blessed, blessed beyond belief. It would be more than I've ever dared to dream I might have. So, what I have to say is – Phyllis Baxter, will you marry me?"

There was a moment when she stared at him, wide eyed, and he thought for a horrible second that it had all been a misunderstanding. Of course she hadn't loved him, or maybe she'd meant it in a platonic sense and he'd got confused. Maybe he'd misread everything and this was all a horrible mistake. Fighting the urge to force a laugh and deny everything, he stood silent, watching her eyes fill with tears as his heart sank. She looked away for a second, and he saw one tear fall.

"Oh, Joseph. I would like nothing more." His heart rose with dangerous speed, and the grin that broke out on his face was jaw splitting. As he opened his mouth to shout in joy, he felt her hand rest on his arm, and he looked down to see her frowning at him.

"But how can you?"

"How can I what?" he said, confused but still grinning.

"Marry me?"

"Well, I hadn't decided on a date, but I thought the church would do nicely. The local Vicar can do the service."

Despite her tears, she couldn't resist smiling at him.

"No, you dear, dear man. I mean, are you sure you want to marry me – knowing what I am?"

He could think of nothing but superlatives. "You've lost me there, I'm afraid."

"I'm – a – a thief. A woman imprisoned for theft, and not wrongly so. I committed a serious crime Joseph, and I have served time for it. You're a teacher, a respected member of the community. I wouldn't have you lose your reputation for the world, and if it ever came out what I'd done I couldn't forgive myself if it made things difficult for you."

He understood. Something – maybe his intuition finally kicking in at the age of 54 – told him that this was one of the key turning points of his life. What he said next would quite possibly be the most important words he had ever said. He said a silent prayer and reached for her hands again.

"Phyllis Baxter. My Phyllis. I love you. What you have done is not who you are. The only thing that matters is are who you are now and who you will be, and that is a kind, considerate and brave woman who lights up the life of the people around her. You have a capacity for care and love beyond that of anyone I know, and that you deign to care for me is a gift I thank God for. My reputation – such as it is – would be improved a thousand-fold with you by my side, and if your past ever comes to public knowledge – which I very much doubt – then we will weather the storm together. But what I think people would see is a woman who built herself a life from nothing and kept herself kind through struggles that would have broken many. If anyone lost respect for you they would not be worth respecting themselves. If there is any other reason Phyllis, anything at all, then please tell me now and I will kiss you on the cheek and walk back into the hall. I will never say anything about the matter again – I will never even speak to you again if that is what you want. It would break my heart, but I would. But otherwise, if that worry is all that stands between us and happiness then, please – trust me. I love you. Please, marry me."

Now the tears were cascading down her cheeks, and she shook her head in disbelief (inadvertently sending another jolt of panic through him).

"Yes. Yes. Oh Joseph, of course I will. Yes!"

Finally letting his grin break free, he reached down, picked her up and spun her round, her hands locking tight around his neck as she squealed in joy. Her feet landed as they drew each other together for a kiss, before she broke it to rest her forehead on his lips.

"Joseph Molesley, I have never heard the like. No woman would have said no to you after a speech like that."

"I don't care about other women. I only care about you."

She looked up, sporting a matching grin.

"Well luckily for you, it worked."

"I am lucky. I am unutterably lucky." He whispered, before kissing her again. As they moved closer together, he felt a small nudge in his pocket and – belatedly – remembered the other vital element to the proceedings. Breaking the kiss suddenly, he stepped back (to Phyllis's obvious confusion), before dropping to one knee in the snow.

"Are you planning to ask for a third time?" she said, bemused.

"Just for the full effect. As long as you say yes, I don't think my heart could take much else." He replied dryly, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small leather box.

"Well Mr Moseley, I suppose it'll be third time lucky."

Fumbling slightly, he popped open the box and held it out to her for inspection.

"Phyllis Baxter, will you marry me?"

"Yes. I will."

Eagerly he pulled the ring out of its slot and reached for her hand, sliding it into its rightful position. She drew in a breath at the sight of it. A small gold band, with a single sapphire set in the middle, it glittered on her finger – not showy or extravagant, but a subdued beauty. For a second the close proximity of jewels gave her the customary flash of panic – but then she calmed. It was hers. Her ring. Not stolen, or borrowed, or entrusted. Hers.

"Oh Joseph, it's beautiful!"

"It suits you." He said softly, marvelling at the way it fitted her finger. She tilted her hand slightly, watching the way the sapphire reflected the lamplight. Something in the way he watched her hand made her pause, and then it clicked into place.

"I would have liked to have met her."

He looked up, startled that she'd realised what the expression on his face meant. That was love, he supposed. Sometimes you just knew.

"She would have adored you."

"I'm glad you think so. If her son is any indication, I would have loved her too."

He smiled and kissed her again.

"Merry Christmas, Phyllis."

"Merry Christmas, Joseph."


	10. Chapter 10

**So I think this fic is nearing the conclusion - I say think because it's now 8 times longer than originally intended so quite honestly, anything could happen. I hope you enjoy this latest update!**

The sun rose bright and shone through the curtains. The thin fabric moved slightly with the breeze coming through the window, and Phyllis breathed in and out with it, flexing her toes and fingers with every breath. As the light played on the cotton she watched it change colour between a hundred shades of grey, blue and white, and felt her spirits rise with every shift. The light spread out onto the floor, turning the boards a deep brown colour as the light poured in like butterscotch. Her gaze shifted to the simple dress hanging on the back of the door and the matching shoes carefully placed below, and a jolt went through her. It was a beautiful day for her wedding.

Down the path towards the village, winding past the edge of the wood and around the corner of the second street on the left, Joseph's cottage glowed in the morning sun. In his room Joseph slept soundly on, having been unable to sleep for excitement and a million small jobs that had suddenly become extremely urgent. He had finally tired himself out in the early hours of the morning, collapsing on the bed surrounded by washed linen, and was now catching up on a much needed few hours. His room bore witness to these preparations: the floor was swept and the carpet cleaned, there was a lingering smell of polish and beeswax, and half of the wardrobe and chest of drawers had been unceremoniously emptied to make way for a new inhabitant. The bedspread so lovingly made by Phyllis was currently folded on the side table, freshly cleaned and waiting to be laid out on the bed where it belonged. The windows were open to air out the room one final time before her arrival – and on the back of the door there hung his best suit, freshly cleaned and shoes sitting below, shined at midnight.

A short walk up the road from the slumbering groom to be, his father was putting the final touches to the floral arrangements. He had picked some of his best roses for her bouquet – peach – and then added some ivy and daisies from the garden. At Joseph's request, he had even tracked down a few sprigs of myrtle to put in the middle of the bouquet. Taking a step back to admire his work, he smiled. It was simple – some would say too simple – but he knew it would be perfect for Phyllis. Leaning close to adjust a few sprigs, he wondered if she would understand the significance. Roses were well known as a symbol of love, and he thought she might just about get the ivy for friendship – but the myrtle was probably Joseph's best bet for a portable leafy bower in Yorkshire in February. You couldn't spend so long with both flowers and a young Joseph and not learn a thousand Latin names for plants, after all. Phyllis for Phyllis. He snorted slightly at the thought, and reached over to move a rose slightly to the left. Everything would be perfect for them, just as they would be perfect for each other. Smiling, he looked over from his workbench to the framed photograph of his wife sitting in the windowsill. She was standing between the two men, Bill holding her hand while Joe had his arm over her shoulder. It was the first time he'd taken his roses to the show and they were surrounded by the blossoms, a veritable cornucopia. It was an old photograph – Joseph was only 25 or so – but it was his favourite. Her eyes were shining with pride as she stared at the camera with a typical steady gaze and welcoming smile.

"Oh, you'd have loved Phyllis." He sighed, picking up the frame to touch his lips to the glass. "Finally, our Joe is settled with a good woman. About time, eh?"

In her cottage on a corner of the estate, Mrs Hughes was serving up breakfast for her and her husband. She was heading up to the house to help the future Mrs Molesley prepare for her wedding any minute now, but she'd wanted to sit down with Charlie first. These were some of her favourite moments with him – before he had had time to put on any formality, any mask for going about his day as Mr Charles Carson. Here, now, they were just Elsie and Charlie. As she flipped the toast over to make sure it was browned both sides – as instructed – she reflected on the advice she had given Phyllis a few months ago. It was true that marriage had been quite a shock to the system, and her first few months as Mrs Carson had been quite an experience. But still, she wouldn't have changed it for the world. Nor him, either. As he blinked blearily at the mug of coffee in front of him, she slid over a plate of toast and a boiled egg, her heart skipping a beat as he looked up at her, eyes full of love. No, she thought firmly, it had not been a mistake. Anything but.

Back at the house, in the bright and airy room of the Butler, Thomas stretched out on the bed. The sun shone through even his thick curtains, and he suppressed a groan at being awoken. As his gaze fell upon the outfit hanging on the back of the door, he groaned again. It was today. She would have perfect weather, he reflected wryly. To a stranger, Phyllis's behaviour since her engagement would have implied a lack of enthusiasm. After approaching Mrs Hughes and Lady Grantham – both of whom had held suspicions for a long time and had enthusiastically consented to the match, she had burrowed back down into her work, remaining perfectly calm about the whole thing. The barrage of questions fired at her by the maids was met with an equanimity and simplicity that soon stopped them asking. The endless needling requests for the exact details of her dress had been closed down with an uncharacteristic sternness – professional secrets, he supposed – but otherwise, she had gone about her daily life as it ever was, serving Lady Grantham and visiting Mr Molesley when she had the time. But to Thomas, who had known her all his life, another side was visible.

He caught the little moments when she would be sewing at the table, polishing shoes, or drinking tea, and smile happily when she caught sight of the ring on her finger. He spotted her staring off into the distance with a wistful look on her face, no doubt wishing she was at the schoolteacher's cottage (which, he had to admit having seen it, was crying out for her presence). He – unfortunately – caught her and Mr Molesley exchanging a fairly heated farewell kiss just outside the servants' entrance (he had exited unseen, with the unerring skill of a man who has had to close many doors silently and unnoticed). He had also noticed that every sewing project she'd worked on in her free time for the last three months had been something else for the house. A bedspread, a pair of embroidered cushion covers, a tea cosy one week. Sometimes he thought the younger generation were falling behind. None of them had noticed any of these things, whereas to him they were blindingly obvious.

Phyllis Baxter was overjoyed at her impending marriage and any fool could have seen it. He was happy for her – really. A touch jealous, perhaps, that she had found someone and could profess her love without shocking or upsetting anyone. Or being jailed, at that. And maybe he would miss her a bit, in the evenings and such. They had taken to sitting together in the servants' hall and talking. Really talking, like they used to when they were younger. He had apologised for the way he had tried to use her when she first came to Downton and she – being Phyllis – had forgiven him in a second and thanked him profusely for getting her the job in the first place the next. He hoped that after she was married, they would be able to continue those talks. Not every night, of course, but sometimes. He hoped she knew how much she meant to him.

In her narrow bed, Phyllis stared at the dress, savouring the minutes before she would have to get up and start getting ready. She had always loved these quiet moments, and this one seemed particularly poignant. The dress fluttered in the breeze and the movement caught the light. The delicate embroidery she had been adding to the dress shone for a second and she smiled to see the roses crawling their way up the skirt. It had been a struggle to make, that dress. Originally she had planned to do the same as Mrs Hughes, and simply use one of her day dresses; unexciting, certainly, but a practical choice, and she'd only felt a small twinge of regret at the thought of not having something more special for her wedding day. Then, one evening when she was visiting the cottage, Joseph made an innocently innocuous comment about how excited he was to see her walking down the aisle towards him – and suddenly, nothing she owned seemed nearly good enough. How could she walk down the aisle to marry the man she loved wearing a beige dress? Or worse still, black – sometimes it seemed as though it was all she owned. This realisation had sent her into a mad panic, soothed only by the procurement of Mrs Patmore's catalogues. Remembering the cook's previous experiences, she hadn't got her hopes up, and ordered a simple cream dress a shade large so she could alter it. She did briefly consider making her own from scratch, but couldn't quite face the challenge of sewing a dress and organising a wedding in two months.

Alter it she had definitely needed to, but looking at it now it seemed worth it. She had raised the hemline for a less matronly effect, nipped the waist and lowered the neckline – albeit marginally. Still, something had been missing. She had begun by embroidering a little around the neckline, hoping to add a subtle effect. Once done though, some unstoppable force had taken her over, and so for the last three months every evening that wasn't taken up with work or conversation with Thomas had seen her scuttle upstairs to add more embroidery to the dress. Along the waist, she had stitched gently swirling patterns of roses and ferns in thread that almost exactly matched the colour of the fabric, and then expanded down the sleeves and onto the skirt of the dress, getting carried away with herself in the scope. It was only a subtle effect, but the effect was quite beautiful – if she said so herself. It was simple, but elegant. Understated, but undoubtedly unusual. Now, when she pictured herself in her mind's eye walking towards him at the altar, his eyes were shining. Really, she had no doubt that if she had walked towards him wearing a burlap sack with twigs in her hair he would have beamed at her as if the sun shone out of her face and she wore pure silk. Now though, she would feel like a bride – and God knows, she'd never thought that day would come.

Those long nights locked up in her cell, she had dreamed of what she would do when she got out. First on her list was always to move far, far away from London. Somewhere green, with sky. Next was to find a job, any job, but something respectable. Sometimes it had varied – move to the continent, become a fashion designer in Paris (a dream she clung to one particularly desperate night, when her new neighbour wouldn't stop loudly weeping and ice formed on the pillow from her own tears). Moving back to her hometown was the other dream, although that one had invariably led to more floods of stifled tears. What would they think of her? How could she show her face with what she'd done? Now, she pictured going back on Joseph's arm – showing him the places that had meant so much to her, telling him about her childhood. None of her family were left (and those that were wouldn't have wanted to see her), but she could show him around the town at least. Oddly, the idea didn't greatly appeal any more. Once it was her favourite dream. Now, it seemed like someone else's. That factory town, with its lonely rooms and soot-stained streets wasn't really her home anyway. There were memories there, certainly – but bad as well as good, and she wasn't sure the two could be separated. It was her hometown, and it would always be a part of her, but Downton was her home now. Joseph was her home.

The dress fluttered again, and she swung her feet out from under the covers, taking a deep breath and exhaling as her feet touched the floor. She was ready to get married.

As she stood up, unsteady on her morning legs, there was a knock at the door. With a sneaking suspicion, she opened it to reveal Anna and Mrs Hughes grinning at her, the latter carrying a large cup of coffee.

"Let me guess." She began, twinkling at the pair. "You've come to help the bride get ready?"

Anna raised an eyebrow slightly. "Only returning the favour. Now, let us in and we'll have you ready in no time."

Half an hour later, the two women stood behind Phyllis as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was plaited and pinned back in a graceful chignon, her face was glowing with happiness and a slight layer of make up, and the cream dress – thanks to long hours with needle and thread – fit perfectly.

"Oh, Miss Baxter," breathed Elsie, "you look beautiful. That dress is stunning, wherever did you get it from?"

Phyllis blushed slightly as she turned to peer over her shoulder and check the back.

"Well, the dress itself I ordered from one of Mrs Patmore's catalogues."

"They must have improved significantly since my wedding day." The housekeeper commented wryly.

"I wouldn't say that. I just altered it slightly and added some – extra bits."

"I'll say!" Anna interjected, studying the way the roses shimmered as Phyllis moved again. "When were you working on this? I haven't seen it downstairs."

"I didn't want Joseph to accidentally see it, so I've been working on it up here in my free time."

She furrowed her brow suddenly, wondering if Mrs Hughes would take this badly. Maybe she should have been doing more work for her Ladyship instead of sewing something as frivolous as embroidery on a wedding dress. The thought hadn't occurred to her, but now she'd confessed the worry struck. Meeting the other woman's eyes in the mirror, she was instantly reassured. Mrs Hughes appeared to be dabbing tears away with a handkerchief, while Anna looked similarly dewy eyed.

"You're truly blessed to have found each other, Miss Baxter. I wish you every happiness in the world."

The three women stood for a moment more, two of them admiring their work – even if Elsie had provided more moral than sartorial assistance – and the other counting her blessings. After a moment, the Scotswoman gave a vigorous sniff and tucked her handkerchief away decisively.

"Now, let's get you down to the church. Mustn't miss your own wedding."

Back down the path, past the forest and stream, along the street and by the war memorial. Round the corner at the end of the street – and there stood the church, budding blossom decorating the trees in the graveyard and brightly coloured hats milling around as everybody from the village poured in for the wedding. Joseph's students clutched their parents' hands, eagerly tugging them towards Mr Molesley's fancy wedding to the woman from the big house. The schoolyard had been talking of little else for weeks now. The parents themselves talked amongst each other, some remembering Joseph as a young boy and some expressing relief that such a nice young man – a real son of the village – had finally found himself a wife ("about time", some muttered). At the entrance the vicar greeted them all, silently taking a head count and becoming increasingly concerned for the sake of his pews. Most of those from the Abbey were already here – the Crawleys sitting at the front and the servants behind. Joseph's father was putting the final touches on the flowers, and Joseph himself was pacing around the vestry, accompanied by his ushers: Thomas and Mr Bates (the two of whom had found common ground in a number of increasingly exasperated shared glances). As the flood of villagers slowed to a trickle, the vicar checked his watch. Any minute now.

And as if on cue, the rumbling of a car rolled down the street and Mr Branson appeared with Miss Baxter, Mrs Bates and Mrs Hughes tucked inside his car. The three women bundled out, with Miss Baxter thanking Mr Branson profusely as she did so.

"Don't you worry Miss Baxter. I never pass up the chance to drive down to the village – and Mr Molesley has always been kind to me. Think of it as my wedding present to the two of you."

Miss Baxter nodded, smiling, then paused and frowned slightly.

"What is it?" the vicar prompted, concerned at a potential case of cold feet.

"Oh, it's silly really. It's just – that might be the last time anyone calls me by that name."

They all smiled.

"Well then we should get underway as soon as possible to make sure it is. If you three find seats, I will head in in a moment, followed – no doubt – by the bride."

As the others gave Miss Baxter final smiles before heading off, he turned to her.

"Are you still sure you wish to walk in alone? There must be someone from the house who could give you away, if you wished."

She nodded firmly.

"I have no family alive or able to attend, and there are good friends of mine who would be more than willing –", Thomas flashed across her mind, the thought of his sardonic expression following her up the aisle almost causing a snort – "but I would like to give myself away. I think it's important for me to do so."

The vicar nodded, still slightly bemused.

"Well, if you're sure. I'll go now and tell your groom to get himself ready at the altar. Just knock on the door when you're ready and the music will begin – then you just have to walk up the aisle."

She nodded, biting her lip. He smiled to see it. Such a simple event really, and yet it made perfectly level headed people lose their minds.

"You've found a wonderful man, Miss Baxter. I wish you both every happiness."

With that, he left, and she took a moment to breathe. As she headed up the path towards the doors, they suddenly opened to reveal Mr Molesley Senior heading towards her at a terrific pace.

"Bill? Whatever's the matter?"

Breathless, he handed over her bouquet.

"Now you know where Joseph gets his forgetfulness from. Sorry, Phyllis love. Would never have forgiven myself if I'd ended up holding the bouquet while you walked up the aisle!"

She laughed, and bent her head to smell the roses.

"It's beautiful. Perfect. I love it, thank you."

He smiled, reaching over to clasp her hand.

"I'll see you in there my dear. Good luck."

He sped off back into the church, clutching his hat as he jogged, and Phyllis slowly followed behind to give him time to sit down again. It was good to know, she reflected, that Joseph's forgetfulness was a familial trait. A strong one too, if the two Molesleys were any indication. He would have the clumsiest babies, she thought, then froze. That was a thought that could be dealt with another day. For now, she should focus on the task at hand.

Through the wooden doors and up the aisle, Joseph Molesley stood anxiously at the altar, watching the vicar adjust his surplice and lay the Bible flat on its stand.

"And she was definitely there?" he asked again.

Behind him, Thomas rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mr Molesley, she definitely wants to marry you."

Joseph nodded. "I know, I know. It just all seems too perfect, I can't quite believe it's real."

"Well, believe it, Mr Molesley." Said Mr Bates, stealing a glance at his wife and son sitting in the row behind the Crawleys. "She loves you, and you love her. The two of you belong together, and you are lucky to have found each other."

Joseph nodded, reaching to adjust the rose in his button hole again.

"We are lucky." He said softly, straightening the myrtle sprig. Straightening his back, he lifted his head and gazed out at the congregation. It was today. It was really happening.

From the other end of the church came a quiet but confident knock on the door, and the organ started playing the wedding processional. The doors swung open to reveal Phyllis.


	11. Chapter 11

**As promised, the next chapter! I am currently in the process of writing more but am in fairly new territory - since this became very much not a one shot (now the longest fic i've ever written) I've always had at least the next two chapters written and now, because of a work deluge, I don't. I would have held off publishing this chapter but really, I felt bad enough about ending it where I did last week so I couldn't have delayed this anymore! There will definitely be more - it just might take slightly longer than the weekly updates I've managed so far. Or, knowing me and my ability to avoid work, it might not. Honestly, at this point, anything's possible and everything's a surprise.**

 **Either way I hope you enjoy this chapter (and I'm not bitter it didn't happen on screen no way no how not me)!**

* * *

She blinked as her eyes adjusted from the bright spring sunshine, and saw what felt like hundreds of faces shining at her. Taking a breath, she began the walk up the aisle, passing excited children and their curious parents whispering about the "lady from the house", and she smiled to think that they meant her. As she walked further she began to get closer to those she knew – Andy and Daisy sitting together with Mrs Patmore and Mr Mason, the four of them an unconventional but happy family; Mrs Hughes tearing up already as Mr Carson beamed; Anna waving her son's chubby arm at the bride as she bounced him on her knee; Lady Grantham smiling with unrestrained delight at her maid as she held Lord Grantham's hand; Mr Molesley senior sniffing already into a handkerchief she'd made for him especially in preparation.

Closer to the front, Thomas had lost any trace of ennui and grinned happily at his best friend, while Mr Bates next to him had a small half smile on his face. But as she walked past the people she loved, Phyllis had eyes for none of them. The only person she could see was Joseph, standing proud and agape with wonder at the end of the aisle. He looked so happy, so truly ecstatic, that it was all she could do not to throw her shoes off and run towards him. She kept up the processional pace as best she could (though admittedly speeding her steps slightly towards the end), and silently counted down the seconds until she reached the front.

Finally, finally, she was there. Handing her bouquet over to a very excited Miss Sybbie on the front row to hold, she reached over and clasped Joseph's hands. They stared into each other's eyes and unconsciously stepped closer together, much to the consternation of the vicar. He coughed and they stepped apart slightly again to stand side by side. Giving them a firm look, he quickly began the service. He was well versed in the Molesley family's history with clumsiness and accidents, and was determined to leave no space for mistakes here. They said 'amen' when prompted and sang a rousing rendition of a hymn Phyllis couldn't remember a word of the second it finished – then in no time at all he was prompting Joseph, who blinked and looked confused before remembering his cue.

"Joseph William Molesley, will you take Phyllis Josephine Baxter to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?"

He nodded vigorously, then at a prompting look swiftly added "I will."

The vicar turned, trying to resist an exasperated sigh.

"Phyllis Josephine Baxter, will you take Joseph William Molesley to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?"

In a strong, clear voice with a smile on her face, Phyllis answered: "I will."

"Joseph and Phyllis, I now invite you to join hands and make your vows, in the presence of God and his people."

Joseph took a breath, and held Phyllis's hands tighter.

"I, Joseph, take you, Phyllis, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward; for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part; according to God's holy law. In the presence of God I make this vow."

He smiled at her proudly, and received an answering grin. Word perfect. Without moving her eyes from his, she echoed the vows.

At a prompting by the vicar, they reluctantly let go of each other's hands for a moment as Thomas reached over to pass the rings.

"Heavenly Father, by your blessing let these rings be to Joseph and Phyllis a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day through Jesus Christ our Lord."

With steady hands, Joseph picked up the smaller of the two rings and slid it into place on Phyllis's hand.

"Phyllis, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage. With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, within the love of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit."

Picking up the remaining gold band, Phyllis held his right hand in place as she did the same.

They looked at each other, barely holding in their excitement. The vicar, thanking the almighty for a service with no mistakes from a Molesley, turned to the congregation.

"I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife!"

As the two kissed, loud cheers almost burst the roof off the church. Pulling back, they looked into each other's eyes, a silent bubble in the middle of the noise. Joseph's grin was face splitting and Phyllis found herself laughing with the sheer volume of joy she felt. It showed in both their faces – the disbelief that anyone could be this happy. Clasping hands, they turned to walk back down the aisle, nodding and smiling at people they – honestly – barely saw.

The doors of the church were flung open and the new Mr and Mrs Molesley stepped out into the bright sunlight, clouds of rice and confetti raining down on them from eager children. Joseph blinked, dazed, as Phyllis laughed again and looked up to see the sun shining through a cloud of tissue.

Behind them, the congregants began making their way out of church: children first, dragging their parents to make it to the schoolhouse first. At a more dignified pace came Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson, Anna and Mr Bates (with baby still firmly in tow), the Mason family and Thomas, who took a second to stop and smell the fresh air, smiling as he watched Phyllis laugh in the middle of another shower of rice. Finishing up the procession at the most dignified pace came the family: Tom, Laura, and Sybbie (still carrying the bouquet); Mary, Henry, George and the baby; then finally Robert and Cora. Watching the excited crowds surround the happy couple as they paused outside the church, Robert had a sudden thought.

"Does this mean that Baxter will be Molesley now?" he said to his wife, frowning.

Parsing this strange sentence with a smile hiding on her lips, Cora considered the question.

"Well, I asked her and she said she doesn't mind staying as Baxter if it's easier for us. I suppose she'll be Mrs Molesley in the village, I don't think those children would settle for anything else. The pair of them are practically famous from what I've heard."

He snorted. "And she'll definitely be able to carry on?"

At this, Cora turned to look at him. "Why on earth are you worrying about that?"

"I just don't want you to be overworked, with everything at the hospital. You need to have a maid you can rely on."

She held his arm tighter and patted it reassuringly. "I can rely completely on Baxter. She's already assured me that she can stay as late as I need, whenever I need, and that she'll only leave the house when she's sure I won't call her. It'll be fine."

"Still, a Lady's Maid marrying and staying on. Who would have thought it?"

"Well, Anna's been married to Mr Bates for years now, and that's worked out well for all concerned." she pointed out.

"Yes, but that's different!"

"I don't see how. Honestly Robert, it will be fine. She asked me for my permission to marry him after all, and I said yes. I would have said something then if I thought there would be any problems, but I really don't. We must all be flexible to survive, and I couldn't have come between the two of them."

Robert shook his head in amazement at the memory of Cora breaking the news to him. It had taken a good five minutes for her to convince him she wasn't pulling his leg – and even having seen the service, he was still having trouble.

"I must admit, I never suspected there was anything there. Molesley and Baxter! Who'd have thought?"

Cora sighed inwardly. Wonderful he may be, but Robert really was the most unobservant man. She had known for a long time that there was something brewing between the two. From their trips round every pub in York on a quest to prove Bates' innocence; Miss Baxter reassuring her with a spark in her eye that Mr Molesley would be accompanying her to the trial of that awful man; the fact that the two of them had stood or sat together at every major social occasion over the last four years – yes, it had been perfectly obvious to her, and no doubt to nearly everyone else. Robert must have seen this in her face, as he sighed in turn.

"Is this another case of me being the last to realise something everyone else already knew?"

"I'm afraid so, darling."

"Ah well. All's well that ends well."

The two of them walked on, arm in arm, towards the school.

Ahead, Phyllis and Joseph had managed to find a moment of peace. The children had rushed ahead to the schoolroom – "first time I've seen them so eager", commented a bemused Mr Dawes, chasing them down the road at a marginally more sedate pace in a bid to make sure the school stayed intact – and the adults had fallen politely behind to give the newlyweds a moment. As the pair walked down the path leading through the churchyard, they tried to find the words to express a tenth of what they were feeling.

"I've never seen anything as beautiful as you walking down the aisle towards me." He said softly, staring down at the top of her head. She looked up, brown eyes meeting his, and the dopey smile on his face melted her heart again.

"It was everything I could do not to run." She admitted, and he snorted.

"I wish you had run. It seems mad now that we haven't been married for years. Decades, even! It just feels so…"

"Right." She finished. "It does, doesn't it? Mrs Phyllis Molesley."

His heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name with his.

"Mrs Molesley." He muttered.

She smiled, then stopped suddenly, clutching his arm.

"What?" he said, nervously. "You've not changed your mind at the sound of it?"

She gave him a fondly exasperated look, then shook her head.

"No – I just need to find Miss Sybbie a moment. There's something I want to do."

Watching bemusedly, Joseph saw her gracefully make her way up the young girl and her father, kneel down – being careful not to mark the dress – and exchange some unheard conversation with her. Sybbie handed over the bouquet, albeit slightly reluctantly, and Joseph smiled to see Phyllis carefully remove one of the roses and hand it to the young girl, who squealed in excitement. She made her way back and he smiled at her clutching the arrangement firmly.

"Miss Sybbie didn't want to let go?"

"I think she has a new-found passion for flowers."

Dad'll like that, he thought, then proffered his arm again.

"Why did you want it now? Why not wait?"

"Because there's something I want to do with it." She said, cryptically.

They kept walking until they reached the corner of the churchyard and she pulled on his arm again gently.

"Here." She said, softly.

He looked down to see a very familiar gravestone.

"Gladys Molesley." He said automatically, before looking over at her. She smiled sadly at him, and knelt again. Pulling a sprig of each flower out of the bouquet, she gathered them in a new bouquet of their own, before gently laying them on the grave and bowing her head for a second. Standing up, she linked her arm in his again and pulled him close, resting her head on his shoulder.

Joseph was speechless for a second as he stared down at the grave. Finally he managed to choke out a "Thank you", and Phyllis squeezed his arm.

"It's only right she should be remembered today. I really would have loved to have known her."

"She'd have loved you, lass." came a voice from behind them, and the pair turned to see an equally choked up Bill watching them.

Phyllis smiled. "I'm glad you think so."

"Oh, I know so. I'm that proud you're joining the family, I really am. I hope you know that."

She nodded, squeezing Joseph's arm again as he managed to regain control.

"Goodbye Mum." He said softly, before turning and continuing the walk towards the school with his new wife held close.

Bill stayed a moment longer, looking down sadly at the gravestone.

"He's finally happy and settled, Gladys. 54 years it took. 54 years. Would you believe it, never thought we'd see the day! You'd be made up for the both of them. Our son, a schoolteacher, and married to a nice woman like Phyllis. He's done well for himself."

He sighed, leaning his hand on the cool, rough stone.

"Thank you, love. It was a wonderful life with you."

Then he too walked on, following the wedding party into the sun.


	12. Epilogue

There would definitely not be enough food for the reception. As crowds of children descended on the playground next to the schoolhouse, Mrs Patmore and Daisy rushed to the hall to scrape any extras together and portion out what there was.

"As long as no one overindulges themselves, I think we'll be fine." Mrs Patmore huffed finally, setting the crowning jewel of the cake down in the centre table. "Either way it'll have to do. I thought it would just be the village coming, not every child from miles around and their parents!"

"Oh, I thought they would." Daisy said absentmindedly, reaching over to tweak a fondant rose. "You should see him teach Mrs Patmore, honestly, he's ever so good. It's no wonder they all wanted to see him marry the lady from the big house."

"Well if you thought so, you could have mentioned it!"

Daisy blushed, and ducked her head down to study the cake closely.

Outside, the happy couple were making their way up the path towards the doors, the sea of children parting before like them as for Moses. Phyllis laughed in joy to see a homemade banner – obviously made with considerable input from the children – hanging over the entrance.

"Congratulations Mr and Mrs Molesley." Joseph read out, beaming with pride. "Thank you everyone! It looks wonderful."

Phyllis looked up at him and smiled.

"Shall we go in, Mr Molesley?"

The hall was already filled with friends from Downton and Joseph's fellow teachers, as well as a slowly growing stream of children. Phyllis gasped to see the spread and turned to smile at Mrs Patmore and Daisy.

"Thank you ever so much, you didn't have to do all that!"

"Nonsense. It's your wedding day, and I hope you're only planning on having the one. It's our pleasure."

As Joseph went to congratulate the children on their excellent banner making skills ("You spelt Molesley correctly as well, I'm very impressed"), Phyllis watched him fondly. Suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she threw herself off balance as she fought the instinctive urge to curtsey, and ended up clutching the side of the table.

"Oh I am sorry, Baxter, I didn't mean to surprise you." Cora said softly, reaching a hand to her maid. Phyllis paused for only a second before taking it and steadying herself.

"Oh no my lady, I just wasn't expecting to see you. I hope you've had a good day?"

"Baxter, it's I who should be asking you. Congratulations, I hope you'll be very happy."

"Thank you my Lady. I think I will."

"Well, you deserve it if anyone does."

Phyllis found herself speechless, and murmured her thanks as Cora beamed.

On the other side of the room, Robert was roundly shaking Joseph's hand as he blinked in panic.

"Your time here really has been something of a rollercoaster Molesley. Who would have thought all those years ago that things would end up as they have, eh?"

"Well…quite, my lord. Not me, certainly."

As their employers finally left, Phyllis and Joseph locked eyes across the room and began moving towards each other – only to meet one final hurdle, as Lady Mary intercepted Joseph. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Phyllis took the opportunity to talk to Mrs Patmore while Joseph turned wide-eyed and pale.

"Congratulations, Molesley."

Joseph stuttered his thanks, which he was beginning to think was a common theme of the day.

"I know we haven't had very much to do with each other – and why would we, I suppose – but I wanted to tell you how much Matthew would have loved to be here. How happy he would have been for you. He thought well of you, Molesley."

Joseph was stunned. So much had changed that sometimes he forgot about the man whose death had cast such a pall over the Abbey.

"Thank you my lady. I'm very glad to hear you say so."

Mary started to move away, then suddenly stopped. It took Joseph a second to realise he was the reason.

"He was a good man."

She nodded slowly.

"Yes, he was. One of the best."

Finally the pair were reunited, and Mrs Patmore took the opportunity to unveil her pride and glory.

"Fruitcake, Mr Molesley. I know that's your favourite."

But everyone's attention was taken by the two figures on top of the cake. A tiny Phyllis made out of icing stood beaming and holding the hand of an equally miniature Joseph, who clutched books under his other arm. Gasping in delight, the real Phyllis leant down to examine them, feeling like a giant.

"Mrs Patmore, they're beautiful!"

"Oh no, it wasn't me. Daisy did them, I just made the cake."

The couple turned to face Daisy, who was blushing bright red.

"Oh, it was nothing really. I just wanted you to have something special after everything you've done for me. Do you – do you like them?"

Phyllis reached over and clasped Daisy's hands.

"They're wonderful, Daisy. Thank you. You really do have quite a gift – look, you even painted embroidery on my dress!"

Nodding, Daisy enthusiastically pointed to the figures.

"I painted it on with one of those tiny brushes, it took forever to get right! Painted on your hair as well, Mr Molesley."

Joseph was torn between embarrassment and gratitude, but as Phyllis held his arm close and smiled up at him, he settled for the latter.

"It looks smashing Daisy. Thank you."

The breakfast went on as children played in the school yard. A giant game of hide and seek was in progress, with Sybil, Marigold and George as enthusiastic as anyone. In the hall, the adults cleared the tables to the side and set up the gramophone and Joseph span Phyllis round to the sound of the waltz, hopelessly out of tune and step and none the wiser to it. Thomas watched them from the door, smiling happily for once. He'd never seen her so free, so unrestrainedly happy – even as a girl. On the other side of the room, Mr Molesley senior took a sip of his tea and thought the same about his son. Outside the sun rose, and the children played, and the world spun on, with millions none the wiser to the unrestrained joy in that tiny school room. To many, it would have seemed ordinary. To the two people at the centre of their own world in the middle of a waltz, it was nothing short of miraculous.

* * *

 **And that's the end! Thank you, thank you to everyone who's read this far and everyone who's reviewed. It's given me such joy to know that this story brings as much happiness to read as it has for me to write, and I've appreciated every single review. This is the end of this story, but there may be more - I promise nothing yet, but when I started this it was just a one-shot (and would probably have picked a different title had I realised it was not), and I had no idea then it would end up being 25,000 words long, so who knows! Thank you again - I hope you enjoyed this final chapter.**


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